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A V 

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QUINNEYS’ 


BY 


HORACE ANNESLEY YACHELL 

w 


AUTHOR OF “BLINDS DOWN," “LOOT,” “BUNCH GRASS,” “jELK’S,” 
“JOHN VERNEY,” ETC., ETC. 


NEW YORK 

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


«/ 



rx3 

.v 


Copyright, 1914, 

By George H. Doran Company 


OCT 27 m 

©CI.A387217 ^ 


CP5 


Wo 

MY FRIEND 
CYRIL MAUDE 


i 



CONTENTS 


BOOK I 

CHAPTER 

I. THE SIGN 

H. THE DREAM COTTAGE 
m. THE PLEASANT LAND OF FRANCE - 

IV. THE INSTALLATION 

V. SUSAN PREPARES 

VI. THE VISITOR ARRIVES 

VH. JOSEPHINA - 

VIII. LIGHT OUT OF THE DARKNESS 
IX. SALVAGE ' 


PAGE 

II 

" 25 

- 43 

“ 54 

- 65 

- 77 

- S 7 

- 101 

- 113 


BOOK II 


X. BLUDGEONINGS 

- 

- 

m 

m 

129 

XI. MORE BLUDGEONINGS 

- 

m 

- 

- 

146 

XII. POSY - 

- 

- 

- 

• 

157 

XIII. RUCTIONS 

- 

- 

- 

- 

169 

XIV. JAMES MIGGOTT - 

- 

- 

m 

- 

179 

XV. AT WEYMOUTH 

- 

- 

- 

mm 

192 

XVI. A BUSINESS PROPOSITION 

- 

- 

- 

- 

203 

XVH. INTRODUCES CYRUS P. HUNSAKER 

- 

- 

- 

217 

xvm. EXPLOSIONS 

- 

- 

/ 

- 

232 

XIX. THINGS AND PERSON'' 

- 

- 

- 

- 

241 

XX. BLACKMAIL 

- 

- 

- 

- 

255 

XXI. MABEL DREDGE - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

265 

XXII. A TEST 

- 

- 

- 

m 

279 

XXIII. THE RESULT 

- 

• 

- 

m 

291 




VII 


QUINNEYS’ 





QUINNEYS’ 


BOOK I 

CHAPTER I 

THE SIGN 

I 

G OOD evening, Mr. Quinney!” 

“Good evening!” Quinney replied, as he passed 
a stout, red- faced fellow-townsman. 

With his back to the man, Quinney smiled. He could 
remember the day, not so long ago, when Pinker, the 
grocer, called him “My lad.” Then his whimsical face 
grew solemn, as he remembered that a smile might be 
misinterpreted by others whose eyes were fixed upon 
him with sympathy and interest. He walked more slowly, 
as befitted a chief mourner returning from his father’s 
funeral, but he was queerly sensible of a desire to run 
and shout and laugh. He wanted to run from a drab 
past into a rosy future; he wanted to shout aloud that 
he was free — free ! He wanted to laugh, because it 
seemed so utterly absurd to pull a long face because a 
tyrant was dead and buried. The fact that the old man 
was buried made a vast difference. 

Suddenly he was confronted by a burly foot-passenger, 
who held out a huge hand and spoke in a deep, muffled 
voice. 


ii 


Quinneys’ 

“So, Old Joe is dead, and Young Joe reigns in his 
stead ?” 

“Right you are,” replied Quinney. 

Despite his efforts, a note of triumph escaped him. 

“Left you everything?” continued the burly man. 
Quinney nodded, and after a pause the other continued 
huskily: “Old Joe had something snug to leave — hey?” 

“Right again,” replied Young Joe. 

“More’n you thought for, I’ll be bound?” 

“May be.” 

“Well, my boy, hold on to it — as he did. It's a damned 
sight easier to make money than to keep it.” 

“I made some of it,” said Quinney. 

“Not much.” 

Quinney shrugged his shoulders and passed on, 
slightly exasperated because a butcher had stopped him 
in Mel Street, Melchester, with the obvious intention 
of pumping details out of him. The butcher walked on, 
chuckling to himself. 

“Young Joe,” he reflected, “is a-goin’ to be like Old 
Joe. Rare old skinflint he was, to be sure !” 

Quinney, meantime, had reached the dingy shop known 
to all Melchester as “Quinney’s.” The shutters were up 
— stout oak boards sadly in need of a coat of paint. 
Quinney opened a side door, and entered his own house 
— his — his ! He could think of nothing else. Quinney’s, 
and all it contained, belonged to him. Immediately after 
the funeral, when the house was full of people, the young 
man was dazed. And when the will was opened, and he 
learned that Old Joe had saved nearly ten thousand 
pounds, he felt positively giddy, replying vaguely to dis- 
creet whispers of congratulation with jerky sentences 
such as “By Gum, this is a surprise!” or, with nervous 
12 


The Sign 

twitchings of the mouth and eyes, “Rum go, isn’t it, that 
I should be rich?” 

Later, Young Joe had gone for a walk alone, seeking 
the high downs above the ancient town. The keen air 
blew the fog out of his brain, and presently he exclaimed 
aloud : 

“Yes ; I am Quinney’s.” 

After a pause he burst out again, speaking with such 
vehemence that a fat sheep who was staring at him ran 
away. 

“Gosh! I’m jolly glad that I gave him a tip-top fune- 
ral. He’d have pinched something awful over mine.” 

After this explosion — silence, broken intermittently by 
whistling. 


II 

Upon entering the house, Quinney went into the shop, 
and disdainfully surveyed the stock-in-trade. Every- 
thing lay higgledy-piggledy. The big window was full 
of faked brass-work which seemed to gleam derisively 
at a dirty card upon which was inscribed the legend, 
“Genuine Antiques.” Among the brass-work were bits 
of pottery and some framed mezzotints. Inside the shop, 
upon an unswept floor, old furniture was piled ceiling 
high. Some of it was really good, for mahogany was 
just then coming into fashion again, but in such matters 
Old Joe had always been behind his times. He pre- 
ferred oak, the more solid the better, buying everything 
at country sales that happened to go cheap ; assorted lots 
allured him irresistibly. He was incapable of arranging 
his wares, laughing scornfully at his son’s suggestions. 
In the same spirit he refused to remove dust and dirt, 

13 


Quinneys’ 

being of the opinion that they lent a tone to antiques 
which were not quite genuine. He had never bought 
really good stuff to sell to customers outside the trade. 

When, as frequently happened, he came across a valu- 
able piece of furniture or a bit of fine china, he would 
communicate at once with a dealer, and in particular 
with a certain Thomas Tamlin, who invariably paid ten 
per cent, advance on the bargain, which might be re- 
garded as a handsome profit. To the visitors, especially 
Americans, who dropped in to Quinney’s on their way to 
and from the Cathedral, Old Joe would sell at a huge 
profit what he contemptuously stigmatized as rubbish. 
A few of his regular customers were well aware that 
Old Joe knew nothing of the real value of some of his 
wares. He bought engravings and prints in colour, and 
these he sold at a price about double of what he had 
paid, chuckling as he did so. 

Porcelain he understood, but not pottery; and even in 
porcelain he refused obstinately to pay a high price, un- 
less he was quite sure of his turnover. Young Joe had 
always despised these primitive methods, and nothing 
pleased him so much as when he was able to rub well into 
his sire the mortifying fact that ignorance and funk had 
prevented him from securing a prize. 

As the young man gazed derisively at his possessions, 
the roustabout boy told him that Mr. Tamlin had called, 
promising to return after the funeral; and a half an 
hour later the dealer arrived, to find Young Joe staring 
devoutly at two figures of Bow and a plate of Early 
Worcester. Tamlin greeted the young man with a cer- 
tain deference never exhibited before. 

“Sorry to disturb you, Joe, on such a sad occasion.” 

“ ’Tain’t sad!” snapped Joe. “You know as well as 
14 


The Sign 

I do that the old man gave me a hell of a time. Now 
he’s gone, and that’s all there is about it.” 

“I came about them.” Tamlin indicated the china. 
“Last thing your pore father wrote to me about.” 

“Nice bits, eh?” 

Tamlin examined them. As he did so, a keen observer 
might have noticed that Young Joe’s eyes were sparkling 
with what might have been excitement or resentment, but 
not gratification. 

“How much?” said Tamlin. 

“They’re not for sale.” 

“What?” 

“I should say that I’m keepin’ ’em for a party I know.” 

“Anything else to show me?” grunted Tamlin, caress- 
ing the Bow glaze with a dirty but loving finger. “Your 
father mentioned a mirror black jar, K’ang He period.” 

“Keepin’ that, too,” replied Quinney quietly. 

“Sold it?” 

“Not yet.” 

Quinney smiled mysteriously. 

“Then what’s up? Ain’t my money as good as the 
next man’s?”- 

“If you want a plain answer, Mr. Tamlin, it ain’t — 
to me.” 

“Ho ! What d’ye mean ?” 

“Just that. It don’t pay to deal with the trade. If I 
pick up a good thing, you get the credit; you claim all 
the credit. Our name is never mentioned, not a line. 
In this town we have the reputation of selling rubbish. 
I’m going to change all that.” 

“Are you?” Tamlin was visibly impressed and dis- 
tressed. “Well, look ye here, take my advice, and walk 
in the old man’s footsteps. He done well.” 


15 


Quinneys’ 


“I shall do better.” 

Tamlin stared at the speaker, who spoke with an odd 
air of conviction. Quinney continued in the same quiet 
drawl, "If you want to buy any of this,” he waved a 
contemptuous hand, "it’s yours — cheap!” 

"Rubbish !” 

"Just so.” 

Tamlin sat down and wiped his forehead. He was 
feeling warm, and the sight of young Quinney so exas- 
peratingly cool and smug in his black clothes made him 
warmer. 

"Ho ! That’s the game, is it ?” As Quinney nodded, 
he continued: "Me and you can do business together.” 

"Together?” 

"I say — together. How would a trip abroad suit you ?” 

Quinney lifted his eyebrows; the first indication of 
interest in his visitor. 

"A trip— abroad?” 

"To France. I’ve heard of a man in Brittany — a won- 
der. His line is old oak; mostly copies of famous pieces. 
He’s the greatest faker in the world, and an artist. No 
blunders! Would you like to go into a deal with me? 
You know old oak when you see it?” 

"I think so.” 

"You go over there and buy five hundred pounds’ 
worth and put it into this shop, after you’ve cleared out 
the rubbish. I’ll go halves. It’s a dead cert, and this 
is the right place for the stuff. My pitch wouldn’t do, 
and I haven’t room. I’ll send you customers.” 

"It’s a go,” said Quinney. 

"You mean to make things hum? And I can help 
you. Never gave you credit for being so sharp.” 

Details were then discussed, not worth recording; but 
16 


The Sign 

during this memorable interview, which led to so much, 
Quinney was sensible of an ever-increasing exaltation 
and powers of speech which amazed him as much as the 
older man. He announced curtly his intention of getting 
rid of the rubbish, repainting and redecorating the 
premises, and dealing for the future in the best, whether 
fakes or genuine antiques. 

“Never could persuade the old man that the ‘Genuine 
Antiques' card was a dead giveaway." 

Fired with enthusiasm, he seized the card and tore it 
up there and then, while Tamlin applauded generously. 

“You're yer father without any moss on you," he re- 
marked, as he took his leave, promising to return on the 
morrow. Upon the threshold he asked, “Doin' anything 
particular this evening ?” 

“Yes," said Quinney. 

Tamlin went out, but returned immediately. 

“You ought to have a sign." 

“I mean to." 

“Thought of that already?" 

“Thousands and thousands o’ times. It'll be a hangin’ 
sign of wrought-iron ; the best ; painted black, with ‘Quin- 
ney’s' in gold. It’ll cost twenty pounds.” 

“That’s going it." 

“I mean to go it." 


Ill 

Quinney supped simply at seven, and then he walked 
across the Cathedral Cose, down a small street, known 
as Laburnum Row, and knocked at the door of a genteel, 
semi-detached cottage. The very respectable woman who 
opened the door drew down the corners of a pleasant 

17 


Quinneys’ 

mouth when she beheld the visitor. A note of melan- 
choly informed her voice as she greeted him, but her 
sharp, brown eyes sparkled joyously as she said : 

“Never expected to see you this evening, Mr. Quin- 
ney.” 

“I'm tired of doing the things that are expected/’ was 
the surprising reply. Then, with a flush, he blurted out, 
“Susan in ?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Biddlecombe, leading the way into 
the parlour. “The child’s upstairs.” 

Mother and daughter had seen Quinney approaching, 
whereupon Mrs. Biddlecombe had remarked, “It’s all 
right. You smooth your hair, dear, and slip on your 
blue gown.” 

Meanwhile, Quinney took the most comfortable chair, 
and stared with appraising eye at the furniture. Above 
the mantelpiece hung the portrait in water-colour of a 
handsome woman, obviously a lady, as the word was 
interpreted by the grandmothers of the present genera- 
tion. This was Mrs. Biddlecombe’s mother, the wife of 
a doctor, who had been bear-leader to a sprig of nobility, 
accomplishing with him the Grand Tour. In her turn, 
Mrs. Biddlecombe had married a medical gentleman (her 
word), who, unhappily, was called from the exercise of 
his profession in a promising suburb to a place invari- 
ably designated by Mrs. Biddlecombe as his last home. 
Later, the widow, left in very humble circumstances, had 
married beneath her rightful station in life a certain 
George Biddlecombe, a small builder and contractor, of 
Melchester, who, failing in business when Susan was 
some five years old, had died of disgust. Since this sec- 
ond bereavement, Mrs. Biddlecombe supported herself 
and her daughter by taking in lodgers, cleaning lace, and 
18 


The Sign 

fancy work. She was a stout, energetic creature, not 
much the worse for the wear and tear of a never-ending 
struggle to raise herself to the position which she had 
adorned before her second disastrous marriage. 

“The funeral was well attended,” she remarked. 

“The old man was hardly what one might call popu- 
lar,” replied Quinney. 

“He’ll be missed in Melchester.” 

“Missed, but not regretted,” the son replied grimly. 

“Ah!” murmured Mrs. Biddlecombe, thinking of the 
builder and contractor. 

Quinney pulled himself together, sitting upright in 
the arm-chair and speaking firmly. 

“I ain’t here to talk about him. Less said on that 
subject the better. I’m my own master now, ma’am, 
able to please myself. Lord ! How he hated my coming 
here!” 

“I know, I know !” 

“Never appreciated Susan, neither. Dessay you think 
I ought to be at home, mourning. Well, he knocked all 
that out o’ me long ago. Plain talk is best. As a mat- 
ter o’ business, with an eye on some of our customers 
in this stoopid old town, I shall do what is expected in 
the way of a tombstone, and I shall try not to sing and 
dance in High Street, but between you and me it’s a 
riddance.” 

Mrs. Biddlecombe smiled uneasily, but she said hon- 
estly : 

“I’ve been through it, Mr. Quinney.” 

“You’ve had the doose of a time, ma’am — and a born 
lady, too.” 

Mrs. Biddlecombe put her handkerchief to her eyes, 
and dabbed them gently. She did not quite understand 

19 


Quinneys’ 

her visitor, who was presenting himself in a new and 
startling light, but she was comfortably aware that his 
own inclination and nothing else had brought him to 
Laburnum Row. For a moment her mind was a welter 
of confused excitements and speculations. Would her 
Susie rise to this momentous occasion? Would she 
clasp opportunity to her pretty bosom? And if so, what 
might not be done with such clay as Quinney, plastic 
to the hand of an experienced potter. Nevertheless, the 
young man’s too brutal declaration of independence 
shocked cherished conventions. She beheld him shrink- 
ingly as an iconoclast, a shatterer of the sacred Fifth 
Commandment. 

“Are you thinking of leaving Melchester?” she asked. 

“Not yet, although I am goin’ abroad.” 

“Abroad?” 

“To France, ma’am.” 

Mrs. Biddlecombe frowned. France was a godless 
country, where tempestuous petticoats abounded. She 
hoped that Susan was arraying herself in the blue gown. 
Blue suited the child’s milk and roses complexion. In 
blue she might provoke comparison with the audacious 
hussies across the Channel. She was clever enough to 
murmur sympathetically, “You need a holiday, to be 
sure.” 

At this Quinney laughed. 

“It’s business. I’m after old oak. Want to work 
up a connection — hey?” 

“Do you speak French?” 

“Me? Do I speak Chocktaw? Do I speak English 
properly? Do I, now? O’ course you parleyvoo like a 
native?” 

“Not quite, Mr. Quinney.” 

20 


The Sign 

“And Susie — you learned her French, and the pl- 
anner ?” 

“I did my best” 

“Angels can do no more,” said Quinney admiringly. 
“Upset yer neighbours, too.” 

He smiled maliciously, having suffered long and pa- 
tiently at the hands of neighbours. Mrs. Biddlecombe 
feigned ignorance of his meaning, when Quinney laughed 
again, almost indecorously. 

“Lord bless you, I know all about that. You pinched 
to get that piano,” he indicated an ancient instrument, 
“because it was the only one in the row. And French! 
By Gum! Is there a girl except Susie who parleyvoos 
in this part of the town? Not one! The whole row 
gnashes its teeth over that.” 

His pride in Susan’s accomplishments touched the 
mother’s heart. Her voice rang out clearly and trium- 
phantly : 

“It’s perfectly true.” 

At this moment Susan Biddlecombe entered the par- 
lour, and Quinney sprang to his feet to greet her. She 
was just eighteen, and very pretty and refined, with small 
hands and feet, and delicately-cut features. The mother 
boasted that she looked a gentlewoman, and for the pur- 
poses of this narrative, it is far more important to add 
that she was innately gentle and womanly, with no taint- 
ing tincture of the ogling, smirking, provincial coquette. 

Quinney kissed her! 

Mrs. Biddlecombe blushed scarlet. Susan smiled, hesi- 
tated, and then kissed Quinney. 

Mrs. Biddlecombe ejaculated “Gracious!” 

“Give us yer blessin’,” said Quinney, quite riotously. 

21 


Quinneys’ 

Then, masterfully, he kissed the girl again, turning to 
confront the astonished mother. 

“Settled between us three months ago,” he explained 
fluently. “We dassen’t tell a soul, not even you, be- 
cause of the old man. He was capable of leavin’ every 
bob to an orsepital for dogs. He said to me once, 'Don't 
let me hear anything of goings on between you and 
that there Biddlecombe girl!' By Gum, I obeyed him! 
He never did hear anything. Me and Susie took jolly 
good care o’ that. I only hope as he knows now.” 

At this Susan murmured : 

“Joe, dear, please don’t!” 

Then mother and daughter solemnly embraced. 

“I hated not to tell you,” whispered Susan, “but Joe 
would have his way.” 

“The old ’un told me I might look high with my 
prospects, but he never did know quality. Quantity was 
what he’d go for. Lord! How he fairly wallowed in 
job lots ! Well, all that’s over.” 

He began to walk up and down the small room, telling 
the two women his plans for the future. They listened 
with shadows of perplexity in their brown eyes, and 
presently Mrs. Biddlecombe carefully cleaned and put 
on her spectacles, peering at her future son-in-law with 
eyes just dimmed by happy tears. 

Presently he spoke of the sign, making a rough draw- 
ing. Mrs. Biddlecombe laughed slily as she pointed out 
the apostrophe in “Quinney’s.” 

“Isn’t Susie going to help?” she asked. “Why not 
Quinneys’ ?” 

“By Gum, you’re right. Of course she’s going to help. 
Make a rare saleswoman, too.” 

22 


The Sign 

“I should love to help!” said Susan eagerly. “You’d 
soon teach me, Joe.” 

“All the tricks in the trade, Susie, and perhaps one 
or two of our own.” 

The girl opened wider her honest eyes. “Must there 
be tricks?” she asked, and a finer ear than Quinney’s 
might have detected a note of anxiety. 

“Bless your innocent heart — yes ! Dessay I shall learn 
a bit from you. Course o’ Shakespeare now, to improve 
one’s powers o’ speech.” 

He laughed so hilariously that Mrs. Biddlecombe held 
up a restraining finger. 

“We’re semi-detached, you know.” 

“I’m rich enough not to care what Laburnum Row 
thinks or says,” he declared. “What day will suit you 
to get married, Susie ?” 

“Oh, Joe — this is sudden.” 

“Sudden? I was tellin’ your mother that I had to go 
to France on biz, but I want you to come along, too, to 
do the parley vooin’. Can you get ready in a month?” 

Mrs. Biddlecombe frowned, shaking her head. 

“You must wait longer than that.” 

“Why?” 

“It’s customary.” 

“Blow that! I want Susie, and while we’re in France 
the shop can be overhauled. You’ll keep an eye on it — 
hey?” 

“I wash my hands of any marriage entered upon in 
undue haste.” 

Finally, he agreed to wait two months, not a moment 
longer. 

“But I shall order the sign to-morrow — ‘Quinneys’ ’ — 
with letters cuddling up against each other. It’ll be 

23 


Quinneys’ 

made in London, quite regardless. Next Sunday, me and 
you, Susie, will take a little walk in and about Melchester. 
I shan’t ask you to pig it over the shop.” 

“I shouldn’t mind that a bit.” 

“But I should. I’m marrying a lady, one of the best, 
and I’ll start the thing in style, just bang up.” 

“A semi-detached?” 

“Lord, no! Wouldn’t hurt your mother’s feelin’s for 
worlds, but a semi-detached ain’t private enough for me. 
The neighbours might hear me yellin’ when Susie pulls 
my hair.” 

Mrs. Biddlecombe rose majestically. 

“I’m going to open a bottle of my ginger cordial,” she 
said solemnly. 

As the door closed behind her, Quinney exclaimed, 
“Now, Susie, you jump on my knee. I want to tell you 
that I’m the happiest man on earth.” 

He spoke in a tone of absolute conviction. 


24 


CHAPTER II 


THE DREAM COTTAGE 

I 

M ELCHESTER, although urban in the strict sense 
of the word, was sweetly fragrant of the country. 
Mel Street, except on Sundays, was always more or less 
blocked with country waggons and carts loaded with 
Melshire cheeses and butter and cream and eggs. Mel- 
shire bacon is famous the world over. There were no 
factories; and admittedly the town depended upon the 
surrounding country, which included wind-swept downs, 
and pleasant valleys, and many woods full of pheasants, 
and languid streams full of coarse fish. Essentially a 
country town which had fallen asleep in the middle ages, 
and went on slumbering, like a hale old man who has 
dined well. The curates and minor canons struggled gal- 
lantly against this somnolence. Vice might be found in 
many of the back streets, vice half-drunk, passive, 
Laodicean, hardly ever rampageous, save on such rare 
occasions when the military were camping just outside 
the moss-grown walls. 

The townfolk, generally, were content with themselves 
and the conditions under which they strolled from the 
cradle to the grave. Susan Biddlecombe, for instance, 
thanked God morning and evening because her lines were 
cast in pleasant places. Till she met Quinney, her mind 
had dwelt placidly in the immediate present. He hurled 

25 


Quinneys’ 

it into the future with a breathless phrase adumbrating 
incredible possibilities. But that was later, after the 
death of his father, who might have lived another twenty 
years. Before that great piece of good fortune Joe 
indulged in talk that was very small indeed ; and the one 
excitement incidental to her engagement was its secrecy. 
Being a pretty girl, and half a lady, she had visualized 
marriage as a tremendous change, possibly for the better, 
quite possibly for the worse. But during these dreams 
she beheld herself as herself, never reckoning that her 
ideas and ideals might make another woman of her un- 
der conditions and conventions other than what she so 
thoroughly understood. 

She was romantic; but who dares to define romance? 
What does it mean to a girl like Susan Biddlecombe? 
Adventure? Yes. She was thrilled to the core when 
Quinney kissed her for the first time behind the parlour 
door; and her heart beat delightfully fast whenever 
she approached their trysting-place in a secluded corner 
of the Close. Romance inspired her with the happy 
thought of corresponding with her lover in cypher. The 
engagement ring became a treasure indeed, because she 
dared not wear it except at night. From the first she 
had gallantly faced the fact that her Joe did not look 
romantic, but there was a flavour of the bold buccaneer 
about his speech, and a sparkle in his eye quite capti- 
vating. His firm, masterful grip of a girl’s waist was 
most satisfying, although it provoked protest. She had 
murmured, “Please — don’t!” And to this he replied 
tempestuously, “Sue, darling, you like it; you know you 
like it. What’s the use of trying to flimflam me?” He 
was not to be silenced till she whispered blushing that 
she did like it. Awfully? Yes — awfully. The man 
26 


The Dream Cottage 

pressed the point, asking astounding questions. What 
ought to be the tale of kisses, for example? Could a 
maid stand five hundred of ’em? Why not try the 
experiment at the first opportunity? 

In this primitive fashion he captured her. 

On the following Sunday the lovers found a cottage 
which seemed to be the real, right thing. It was set in 
a small garden, surrounded by a small holly hedge, and 
flanked on the northeast by a row of tall elms. Behind 
the cottage was a plot of ground, which included a 
superb chestnut tree, with low branches, upon which, as 
Susan observed, hammocks could be swung. 

“Hammocks?” repeated Quinney. 

“On Sunday,” said Susan, “in the summer, we can lie 
in hammocks and think of how hard we work during the 
week. It will be heavenly.” 

“By Gum! You have ideas, Sue.” 

“Mother always said I was too romantic.” 

The cottage was roofed with big red tiles encrusted 
with mosses and lichen ; and about its walls in summer- 
time clambered roses and clematis. 

“I love it already,” Miss Biddlecombe declared with 
fervour. 

“More than you love me?” 

For answer she made a grimace. Quinney, with a 
broad grin upon his lips, encircled her waist with his 
arm. But a pin pierced his finger, which began to bleed, 
whereupon the young woman seized the finger and put 
her lips to it. 

“I’ve drunk my Joe’s blood,” she said, with a charming 
blush. 

“Oh, you jolly cannibal !” exclaimed Quinney. 

They kissed each other tenderly, and almost forgot the 

27 


Quinneys’ 

cottage. Presently Quinney said, “I believe this’ll do?” 
and she answered ecstatically, “It’s exactly right.” 

Quinney qualified this. 

“There may be others better still; it’s only the best 
we’ve seen so far.” 

“I dare say you think there’s a better girl than I am 
somewhere or other?” 

“No, I don’t!” 

“How awful it would be if I caught you looking for 
her.” 

“No fear o’ that !” he affirmed solemnly. 

Next morning early they went together to the agent, 
derisively scornful of the gossips, who, to do them jus- 
tice, refrained from unpleasant remarks. Laburnum Row 
knew by this time that young Joe Quinney had ten thou- 
sand pounds, and the rosy-fingered fact that he had found 
a wife in a semi-detached cottage was tremendously ac- 
claimed. 

The agent smiled discreetly when he saw them, and 
may have wished, poor fellow, that he, too, was young 
again and shamelessly in love. 

“Bird-nestin’, we are,” said Quinney. 

“Just so. Did you like the nest you saw yesterday?” 

The sly fellow glanced at the girl, who answered 
eagerly, “It’s too sweet for anything!” 

Obviously, she wished to clinch the bargain on the 
nail, but, much to her exasperation, the more cautious 
male began to ask questions, listening attentively to the 
answers, and displaying a shrewd understanding. Susan 
decided that her Joe was wasting valuable time, because 
she wanted to discuss wallpapers. She snififed when 
Quinney said, “Is there anything else on your books 
prettier than this cottage?” She shuffled impatiently 
28 


The Dream Cottage 

when the agent answered impassively, “Oh, yes !” While 
the men had been talking she had decided that an ugly 
pigsty must be pulled down, that the kitchen must be 
refloored, and that the big water barrel should be painted 
apple-green and white. 

“Where is this other cottage ?” 

“On the Mel, five minutes’ walk from your place. It 
belongs to the widow of an artist, and it’s a real bargain. 
You ought to see it.” 

“We will see it,” said Quinney. 

Susan shrugged her small shoulders. All this talk was 
lamentably foolish. Men were great sillies. While they 
were staring at cottage number two, some enterprising 
stranger might snap up cottage number one. A nice sell 
that would be ! 

“Come on, Sue,” said Quinney. 

Miss Biddlecombe “came on” reluctantly, holding her 
tongue because she dared not speak her mind before the 
agent, and very cross by reason of this abstention. 

“You ain’t tired?” asked Quinney, reading her face 
wrongly. The tenderness in his voice brought back a 
brace of dimples. 

“Tired? Not a bit, but I’m sure that our cottage is 
the prettier.” 

“Please suspend judgment,” said the agent formally. 
How could he divine that the pretty maid, who smiled 
at him so sweetly, would have suspended him from the 
nearest tree for being a bore and a nuisance. She 
smiled upon him with rage in her heart. 

And, behold, the second cottage was infinitely prettier 
than the first. Susan gasped when she beheld it, and 
she was quite furious with Quinney when he said draw- 

29 


Quinneys’ 

lingly, “This looks all right, but what’s wrong with it? 
Why hasn’t it been gobbled up long ago ?” 

“There is something wrong with it — the price.” 

“I guessed as much.” 

The agent explained glibly, for he, too, had learned of 
young Joe’s great inheritance. 

“It’s not big enough for well-to-do folk ; and it’s much 
too expensive for poor people. It cost quite a lot of 
money. There’s a boathouse, and fishing rights, and 
everything is in tip-top order. So it’s not surprising that 
the price is tip-top also. But it’s a genuine bargain.” 

“How much?” 

The agent mentioned a sum which made Quinney 
whistle. Susan groaned. She had quite forgotten cot- 
tage number one. It had grown common in her brown 
eyes, which dwelt with rapture upon a tiny lawn sloping 
to the sleepy Mel, upon the veranda where in summer- 
time Joe and she could eat their meals, upon the lilac and 
laburnum soon to bloom, upon the placid stream so plainly 
loath to leave such delightful banks. No neighbours 
other than the owners of big gardens would disturb their 
peace. Over everything hung a veil of romance and 
beauty. Furtively, she wiped two tears from her eyes. 

“Let us go,” she said quietly. 

She turned, and the men followed her in silence. 

II 

Quinney went back to his shop without making any 
reference to cottage number one. Undoubtedly number 
two was a bargain, but he remembered a maxim often 
in his father’s mouth, “At a great pennyworth pause 
awhile; many are ruined by buying bargains.” More- 
30 


The Dream Cottage 

over, the first cottage was to be had at a modest rent. 
Number two was not offered on lease; the owner wanted 
spot cash for the freehold. Before the lovers parted, 
Susan whispered, “I do wish we had not seen that cot- 
tage by the Mel. It’s made me hate the other.” 

Quinney nodded gloomily. Susan continued softly, 
“It's a dream-cottage. I shall think of it as that, and 
pretend that it doesn’t really exist. I may go there some- 
times when I’m asleep.” 

“You must look a little dear when you’re asleep !” 

“Oh, Joe, you do say such odd things.” 

“We’ll look at some other cottages.” 

“I shall be perfectly happy with you anywhere — except 
in that first cottage.” 

“One of these fine days you’ll live in a big house in 
London.” 

“What?” 

“I mean it. You make a note of what I say. This 
old town is well enough, but it ain’t big enough for 
me. 

“Joe, you do surprise me.” 

“Bless you, dear heart! I surprise myself. I’m a 
smallish man, as inches count, but I’m simply bustin’ 
with big ideas. I surprised Tamlin, too.” 

“I don’t like Mr. Tamlin.” 

“Now, why not?” 

“He looks so sly.” 

“He’s foxy, very. Has to be. A London dealer must 
be sharper than his customers. The big collectors, the 
chaps that write thumpin’ cheques are no fools, and 
some of ’em are knaves. I could tell you stories ” 

“Please don’t, dear.” 

“Why not?” 


31 


Quinneys’ 

“I don’t want to listen to unpleasant stories now ; and 
besides, mother is expecting me. It’s washing day.” 

“I hate the thought of my Sue at the wash-tub !” 

She considered this gravely, with her head a little upon 
one side. Then she answered soberly, “I like doing 
things, and getting them done properly.” 

“By Gum, you seem to forget you’re a lady born.” 

“I’m only half and half, Joe. It will be a real pride 
to me getting up your shirts.” 

“There’ll be none o’ that, my girl.” 

She laughed gaily, but her face was pensive as she 
returned to Laburnum Row. 

Ill 

Next Sunday happened to be an exceptionally fine day. 
Quinney accompanied Susan and her mother to the 
Cathedral, but after the service Mrs. Biddlecombe re- 
turned to Laburnum Row, leaving the lovers in the elm- 
encircled close. Quinney, whose eyes were sparkling 
even more than usual, strolled across the Mel, and pres- 
ently he paused opposite the Dream Cottage. Susan 
pinched his arm. 

“How horrid of you to bring me here,” she whis- 
pered. “I hate the sight of it now.” 

“But why? Queer things girls are, to be sure.” 

“If it’s queer not to stare at what one can’t have, I’m 
queer,” said the young lady with curtness. “I was never 
one to flatten my nose against the window of a hat-shop 
when I’d no money to buy hats.” 

“You’re a sensible little dear ! But I brought you here 
because the place is sold. I knew that would cure you. 
Now oughtn’t we to have a squint at the first?” 

32 


The Dream Cottage 

“It would make me squint to look at it now.” 

“It’s nicer than a tent.” 

“A tent?” 

“You said you would live happily in a tent with me.” 

“Men don’t understand women.” 

“That’s a horrid thought with our two lives to live 
out together.” 

He looked so sorry because he couldn’t understand 
women that Susan kissed him, having satisfied herself 
that nobody was in sight. She said softly : 

“Well, Joe, it is really my fault because I did disguise 
my disappointment very cleverly, didn’t I?” 

Quinney chuckled. 

“Disguise it? Bless your simple heart! I saw two 
fat tears rolling down your cheeks. I was the one who 
disguised my disappointment.” 

Whereat Susan protested stoutly that she had never 
seen any man look so disgusted as her Joe, when the 
agent mentioned the price of the Dream Cottage. She 
concluded on a high note of assurance. 

“Desperate diseases require desperate remedies. Now 
that we’re here, we’ll go in, and I’ll let it soak in that 
the place is really and truly sold.” Quinney nodded, and 
Miss Biddlecombe continued fluently, “After I’ve seen it 
once more I shall never give it another thought.” 

“Don’t be too cocksure about that !” 

“I tell you I shan’t, and besides, the river is certainly 
dangerous.” 

“Dangerous to us?” 

She blushed delightfully, pressing his arm, but saying 
nothing. Quinney, divining her thoughts, fell more in 
love with her than ever. She went on artlessly, “I ex- 
pect the house is damp in winter.” 


33 


Quinneys’ 

“Dry as a bone. I asked about that” 

“When did you ask?” 

“I suppose when we looked at it.” 

“I never heard you ask. I’m feeling quite happy about 
it now. I wonder whether the people who have bought 
it have moved in?” 

He was able to assure her that they hadn’t. But she 
asked immediately how he had come to know of the 
sale. 

“The agent told me.” 

“When?” 

“When I wrote to him.” 

“Why did you write to him ?” 

“To make inquiries about other cottages, of course.” 

They passed through a wicket-gate into a small garden 
gay in summer with larkspur, hollyhocks, and what chil- 
dren call “red-hot pokers.” A path of flagged stones 
wandered round the house. 

“Cosy, ain’t it?” he said. And as he spoke she no- 
ticed that his voice trembled. She tried to interpret the 
expression upon his shrewd, whimsical face, and failed. 

“Are you so tremendously sorry that this lovely place 
is sold?” 

“I’m tremendously glad,” he replied. 

“I can’t screw myself up to say that, Joe. I wonder 
who is coming to live here?” 

“A childless couple.” 

“A childless couple!” Her face softened. “I’m sorry 
they’re childless. I can see children running about this 
garden.” 

“And tumbling into the river!” 

“I was only joking about that. But perhaps ” 

“Exactly. They may have a dozen yet.” 

34 


The Dream Cottage 

She sighed as she surveyed the pleasance. Nothing, 
she decided, could ever be so exactly right again. Then 
Quinney said abruptly: 

“We can’t keep your poor mother waiting for din- 
ner.” 

“Bother dinner. I want to have a long, last, lingering 
look.” 

“But you may come again, because you happen to know 
the man who has bought it.” 

The note of triumph in his voice was illuminating. 

“Joe!” she exclaimed. “It’s you!” 

“Yes; it’s me. Now ain’t I a regular old rag-bag o’ 
surprises ?” 

IV 

The furnishing of the Dream Cottage occupied them 
very agreeably during the two pleasant months that 
elapsed before their marriage, but there were moments 
when Susan became exasperatingly conscious of immense 
differences between herself — as she was beginning to 
know herself — and the man she loved. Mrs. Biddle- 
combe and she, for instance, had nourished the conviction 
that the home being the true sphere of woman, it would 
be their privilege and pleasure to arrange it according to 
the lights, farthing dips, perhaps, vouchsafed to the 
middle class in Victorian days. But the Man of Many 
Surprises, as Susan called him, dealt drastically with 
this conviction, despatching it swiftly to the limbo of 
unrealized ambitions and broken hopes. In those days, 
it may be remembered, popular fancy strayed wantonly 
amongst ebonized super-mantles, and cabinets with 
gilded panels upon which exotic birds and flowers were 

35 


Quinneys’ 

crudely painted. Aspinall’s Enamel entered generously 
into most schemes of decoration. Fireplaces were filled 
with Japanese umbrellas. Japanese fans were arranged 
upon bilious-looking wallpapers, and Japanese bric-a-brac, 
cheap bronzes, cheap porcelain, everything cheap, became 
a raging pestilence. 

Quinney’s taste soared high above this rubbish so dear 
to the hearts of Susan and her mother. Afterwards he 
marvelled at the sure instinct which had guided him 
aright. Where did it come from? Why, without either 
knowledge or experience, did he swoop unerringly upon 
what was really beautiful and enduring, and at that time 
more or less despised? 

Mrs. Biddlecombe had bought a book entitled, “How 
to Furnish the Home with One Hundred Pounds.” She 
read aloud certain passages to Quinney, who listened 
patiently for half an hour, and then snorted. 

“You’ve taken cold,” said the anxious Susan. 

“That rot would make any man choke,” said Quinney. 
“Makes me perfectly sick,” he continued, warming to 
his work, as he encountered the amazed stare of the 
women, “makes me want to smash things ! Silly rot, and 
written by a woman, I’ll be bound.” 

“It’s written by a lady,” observed Mrs. Biddlecombe, 
“an authoress, too.” 

“It’s written by a fool!” snapped Quinney. “We’ve 
Solomon’s word for it that there’s nothing so irksome 
as a female fool. This particular brand o’ fool don’t 
know, and never will know, the very first principles o’ 
furnishing, whether for rich or poor. Buy good solid 
stuff. Don’t touch rubbish! Rubbish is beastly. Rub- 
bish is wicked. I’ve had enough of rubbish. Me and 
Susan is going to start right. And as for cost,” he 
36 


The Dream Cottage 

paused to deliver a slashing blow, “Pm going to put one 
thousand pounds' worth of stuff into my house!" 

Mother and daughter gasped. Quinney seemed to 
have swollen to monstrous dimensions. Was he stark 
mad? Tremblingly they waited for what might follow. 

“Perhaps more," he added flamboyantly, “and every- 
thing is going to be good, because I shall choose it. It's 
become a sort of religion with me. A fine thing like 
that K’ang He jar of mine makes me feel good. I can 
kneel down before it." 

Mrs. Biddlecombe observed majestically: 

“Don’t be blasphemous, Joseph!" 

“Blasphemous?" he repeated derisively. “It’s blas- 
phemy to my notion to prefer ugliness to beauty. Sup- 
pose I’d done as father wanted me to do, and got en- 
gaged to that ugly laughin’ hyena, Arabella Pinker, be- 
cause she had something in her stocking besides a leg 
like a bedpost.” 

“Now you are indelicate, isn’t he, Susan?" 

“I chose Susan instead of Bella. Blasphemous ! Now, 
tell me, what do you go to the Cathedral for ?’’ 

“To worship my Maker." 

“Well, I’m going to be honest with you and Sue. I 
go to the Cathedral to look at the roof, the finest bit of 
stonework in the kingdom. My thoughts just soar up 
into that vaulting. I feel like a bird o’ Paradise. Our 
Cathedral is God’s House, and no mistake. My mind 
can’t grapple with Him, but it gets to close grips with 
that fan vaulting, which He must have designed." 

“Never heard you talk like this before," murmured 
Susan. 

In her heart, which was beating faster than usual, 
Miss Biddlecombe was profoundly impressed, because she 

3 7 


Quinneys’ 

had wit enough to perceive that her Joe was absolutely 
sincere. But she trembled at his audacity, because she 
had been trained to say “Gawd” rather than “God,” be- 
lieving devoutly that the lengthening of the vowel indi- 
cated piety. 

“I've had to bottle up things,” said Quinney grimly. 
“Now I’m free to speak my mind, and you're free too, 
my girl. Hooray, for plain speech! Lawsy, how it 
hurts a poor devil to hold his tongue!” 

Mrs. Biddlecombe retired from the parlour feeling 
quite unable to deal faithfully with a young man who 
must be, so she decided, slightly under the influence of 
liquor. Her ideas had been put to headlong flight, but 
they returned like homing doves to the great and joy- 
ous fact that her prospective son-in-law possessed ten 
thousand pounds. Enough to intoxicate anybody — that! 
Her own steady head swam at the luck of things. Later, 
when the first exuberance had passed, Susan and she 
would have a word or two to say. For the moment 
there were ten thousand reasons, all of them pure gold, 
in favour of discreet silence. 

V 

To Susan alone, under a pledge of secrecy, Quinney 
became alluringly expansive. Once, in her flapper days, 
she had seen Lord George Sanger's famous three-ring 
circus, and had tried to take in and assimilate three 
simultaneous shows. Result — a headache! Peering into 
Quinney's mind was quite as exciting as the three-ring 
circus, and nearly as confusing. He could soar to the 
giddy pinnacles of Melchester Cathedral, and thence, 
with a swallow's flight, wing his way through the open 

38 


The Dream Cottage 

windows of a stately pile of buildings designed by Inigo 
Jones for the fourth Marquess of Mel. 

Indeed, the door had not closed behind the ample 
rotundities of Mrs. Biddlecombe when he asked ab- 
ruptly : 

“Ever seen the Saloon at Mel Court ?” 

“Never, Joe.” 

“It’s furnished just right according to my ideas. I 
want to have furniture of that sort. Georgian — hey? 
We’ll go there together, when the family are in town. 
In that Saloon I feel as I do in the Cathedral — reg’lar 
saint! It’s spiffin’! And every bit of the period. Not 
all English — that don’t matter. The china will make 
your mouth fairly water, the finest Oriental! Pictures, 
too, but of course we can’t touch them yet.” 

Susan gazed anxiously into his face, which was glow- 
ing with enthusiasm. 

“Joe, dear, shall I fetch you a glass of barley water?” 

“Barley water? Not for Joe! I’ve thought of that, 
too, my pretty. I’m going to have a cellar. None o’ 
your cheap poisons ! Sound port and old brown sherry, 
in cut-glass decanters!” 

Susan opened her mouth, closed it, and burst into 
tears. At the moment she believed that her clever Joe 
had gone quite mad. The young man kissed away her 
tears, and soon brought the ready smile back to her lips, 
as the sanity which informed so remarkably his powers 
of speech percolated through her mind. He might say 
the strangest and most surprising things, but they were 
convincing, indeed overpoweringly so. He held her 
hands, as he talked, in his masterful grip, and looked 
keenly into her soft brown eyes. 

“Sue, dear, it’s not surprisin’ that I surprise you, be- 

39 


Qu limeys’ 

cause, as I told you before, I surprise myself. I lie 
awake nights wondering at the ideas that come into my 
head. I suppose the old man was such an example ” 

“An example, Joe?” 

“Of how not to do things ! Lawsy, what a wriggler, 
to be sure, twisting and turning in the dark, and dis- 
liking the light. Wouldn’t clean our windows, because 
he didn’t want our customers to see the fakes too plainly. 
We just pigged it. You know that? Yes. I had to 
make a flannel shirt last a fortnight. Same way with 
food. Cheap meat, badly cooked. Stunted my growth, 
it did, but not my mind. I used to spend my time think- 
ing what I’d do when I got out of Melchester.” 

“Out of Melchester?” 

Susan and her mother were in and of the ancient town. 
In these days of cheap excursions and motor-cars it is 
not easy to project the mind back to the time when the 
middle classes rarely stirred from home. To be in Mel- 
chester, according to Susan Biddlecombe, was a pleas- 
ure; to be of it, a privilege. Melchester had imposed 
upon her its inexorable conventions, the more inexorable 
because they were unformulated, exuding from every 
pore of the body corporate. Chief amongst them per- 
haps was veneration for the Bishop who ruled his dio- 
cese with doctrinal severity tempered by gifts of port 
wine and tea and beef. Nonconformity was ill at ease 
and slightly out of elbows beneath the shadow of the 
most beautiful spire in England. The only Radical of 
importance in the town was Pinker, the rich grocer. 
And when the Marquess of Mel said to him, chafflngly, 
“Ah, Pinker, why don’t you belong to us?” the honest 
fellow replied, “It’s this way, my lord. The Conserva- 
tive gentry deal with me because I know my business. 

40 


The Dream Cottage 

The Radicals buy from me because I’m a Radical. 
They’d sooner deal with the Stores than with a Tory 
grocer.” 

Quinney continued: 

“I have my eye on London, Paris, and New York.” 

“Mercy me !” 

“Meanwhile, Melchester is good enough. But our 
house must be a show place — see?” 

Susan tried to see, but blinked. 

“I shall take some of our customers to our house, to 
show them the things they can’t have. I mean, of 
course, the things they can’t have except at a big price. 
Nothing bothers a collector so much as that. Your 
real connoisseur” — Quinney had not yet mastered the 
pronunciation of this word — “goes dotty when he can’t 
get what he wants. By Gum, he feels as I used to feel 
when I wanted you, and the old man was alive and 
everlastingly jawing about Arabella Pinker. I shall 
have a lot of Arabellas in the shop, but my Susans will 
be at home.” 

“But, Joe, mother and I were so looking forward to 
furnishing the Dream Cottage.” 

“I know, I know!” He began to skate swiftly over 
the thin ice. “But your ideas, sweetie, are so — so semi- 
detached. You haven’t got the instinct for the right 
stuff. I have. You and your mother want to stir up 
Laburnum Row. I’m a-going to make the whole of 
Melchester sit up and howl. See?” 

Susan nodded. Very dimly she apprehended these 
incredible ambitions, and yet her instinct, no more at fault 
than his, whispered to her that Joe could do it. From 
that moment Laburnum Row appeared in its true pro- 
portions. Quinney said quickly: 


41 


Quinneys’ 

‘Til leave the kitchen and the bedrooms to you, but, 
remember, no rubbish/' 

Accordingly it came to pass that the Dream Cottage 
was furnished with charming bits of Chippendale, Hep- 
plewhite, and Sheraton, picked up here and there 
throughout Wessex. The rubbish in the shop was sold 
en bloc , being taken over by a small dealer. The premises 
were put into the hands of a London decorator, a friend 
of the great Tamlin. 

Upon the day the painters went in Quinney marched 
out and married his Susan. 


42 


CHAPTER III 


THE PLEASANT LAND OF FRANCE 

I 

T HEY crossed to Saint Malo two days after the 
wedding. The groom was horribly sea-sick; the 
bride, a capital sailor, ministered to him faithfully. This 
experience is recorded, because it opened Joe's eyes to 
the fact that physical infirmity is a serious disability. 
He had never been “outed,” as he expressed it, before. 
And it was humiliating to reflect that his small Susan 
could confront without a qualm wild waves when he 
lay prostrate, limp in mind and body, capable only of 
cursing Tamlin, who had despatched him upon this peril- 
ous enterprise. He was not too well pleased when 
Susan kissed his clammy brow and whispered, “Oh, Joe, 
I do love to look after you." Somehow he had never 
contemplated her looking after him. His very gorge 
rose at the thought of his inferiority. Twenty-four hours 
afterwards he felt himself again, the better perhaps for 
the upheaval, but the memory of what he had suffered 
remained. He told himself (and Susan) that he would 
be satisfied with establishing himself in London. New 
York and Paris could go hang! 

They wandered about Saint Malo, criticizing with en- 
tire candour everything they beheld. Susan aired her 
French; the true Briton expressed a preference for his 
own honest tongue. The Cathedral aroused certain 

43 


Quinneys’ 

enthusiasms tempered by disgust at the tawdry embellish- 
ments of the interior. Susan, however, was impressed 
by the kneeling men and women, who wandered in and 
out at all hours. She stared at their weather-beaten faces 
uplifted in supplication to some unknown saint. She 
became sensible of an emotion passing from them to 
her, a desire to kneel with them, to share, so to speak, 
the graces and benedictions obviously bestowed upon 
them. For the first time in her life she realized that 
religion may be more than an act of allegiance to God. 
These simple folk, workers all of them, could spare five 
minutes out of a busy morning to pray. Her own 
prayers never varied. Night and morning she repeated 
piously the formulas learned at her mother’s knee. Upon 
Sundays she followed more or less attentively the fine 
liturgy of the Church of England. Naturally intelligent 
and supremely sympathetic, she could not doubt that 
prayer meant more to these Papists than to her, some- 
thing vital, something absolutely necessary. She glanced 
at her husband’s face, wondering whether he shared her 
thoughts. Joe was worshipping after his own fashion 
the Gothic architecture of the nave, and favourably con- t 
trasting it with the transepts. She touched his arm 
timidly. 

“Would it be wicked, Joe, to kneel down here?” 

Joe stared at her whimsically. 

“Do you want to?” he asked. 

“Ye-es.” 

“Well, then, do it. You ain’t going to pray to that?” 
He indicated a graven image, atrociously bedizened in 
crude blue and silver tinsel. 

“Oh, no !” she answered ; then she added, with a blush, 
“I only want to thank God that we are here — together.” 
44 


The Pleasant Land of France 


“Right you are!” said Joe heartily, but he did not 
offer to kneel with her. She moved from him slowly, 
with a backward glance, which escaped his notice, and 
knelt behind a pillar, covering her face with her hands, 
wondering at first what her mother would say if she 
could see her, and almost tremblingly glad that she 
couldn't. Oddly enough, when she began to pray it never 
occurred to her to use the old familiar forms. She 
thanked God because He had made her happy; she en- 
treated a continuance of that happiness in her own art- 
less words, words she might have used to her mother. 
When her prayer was ended, she became conscious of the 
strange intimacy of her invocation. She felt a glow, 
although a minute previously the lower temperature of 
the Cathedral after the warm sunshine without had struck 
her chillingly. When she rose from her knees, her eyes 
were shining. She returned to her husband, who said: 
“Regular mix-up we have here. Let’s skin out of it.” 

II 

They travelled by easy stages to Treguier, their desti- 
nation, stopping overnight at Saint Brieux and Guin- 
gamp. By the luck of things they happened to reach 
Treguier at the time of the great Pardon, le Pardon des 
Pauvres, the Pardon of Brittany’s greatest and most po- 
tent Saint — Yves de la V&rite. Everything also com- 
bined to make this new experience an imperishable mem- 
ory. Their hotel in Treguier was charmingly clean and 
comfortable, an inn of the olden time kept by two elderly 
spinsters. It overlooked the river Jaudy flowing placidly 
to the sea. Beyond, under soft skies, lay the Breton 
landscape, quietly pastoral, pleasingly undulating, with 

45 


Quinneys’ 

a thin mist revealing rather than obscuring its beauty. 
Susan woke early, hearing the sound of sabots upon the 
quay, and the tinkle of bells upon the horses. She went 
to the open window and looked out. Already the town 
was full of pilgrims, peasants in the costume of the 
country, all chattering and gesticulating. Some had come 
in boats. Susan marked the whiteness of the women’s 
coifs and the stout cloth of their gowns. When they 
laughed she saw rows of white teeth; their faces were 
superbly tanned by sun and wind ; they looked what they 
were — the sisters, the wives, the mothers of strong men. 
Amongst them, terribly conspicuous, wandered a few 
beggars, disease-stricken wretches importuning alms of 
the healthy, pointing shrivelled, dirty hands at their 
dreadful sores, advertising, almost triumphantly, their 
poverty and misery. Susan had learned from the two 
sisters that this was the fete of the very poor, she had 
been warned to expect a parade of misery and defor- 
mity, and Mademoiselle Yannik had added softly, “Look 
you, madame, it is good, when one is young and strong 
and happy, to look sometimes at these miserables 

III 

The Pardon is not held at Treguier, nor at Minihy, 
but on the other side of the Jaudy, upon a hill near 
Porz-Bihan. Here, in former times, stood a chapel, 
now in ruins; only the ossuary is left, in which may 
still be found an image of the great Saint, very old, very 
crudely fashioned, but supremely interesting by reason 
of the veneration with which it is regarded by the peas- 
ants. The Quinneys watched the pilgrims coming and 
going in a never-ending procession. Each offered pray- 
46 


The Pleasant Land of France 

ers and oblations in copper to the Saint, who stared 
down upon them with that vague, impersonal regard 
which would seem to indicate indifference or lassitude. 
Upon an altar were ranged other saints, rude images of 
painted wood, saints never canonized, and looking as if 
they resented the unique honour paid to Yves le Veri- 
dique. Many of the pilgrims muttered some formula 
in Breton, which afterwards Mademoiselle Yannik trans- 
lated for Susan. It ran: “If theirs be the right, con- 
demn us. If ours be the right, condemn them.” For 
this is the patron saint of lawyers, and of the poor 
oppressed by the law. The procession of Miserables 
followed. An Englishman told the tale of the Miracle 
of the Soup to Susan. He described vividly a farm 
hard by filled with outcasts upon the eve of the Pardon. 
And so bitter had been the weather that the farmer 
had made small provision for his guests, assured that 
only a few would demand his hospitality. The pot-au- 
feu hung upon its hook, but there was hardly soup 
enough in it to feed half a dozen, and scores were arriv- 
ing. And then suddenly a stranger appeared, approached 
the hearth, and affirmed that there would be enough 
for all. Having said this, he vanished, and, lo, a mir- 
acle! The crowds were abundantly fed. The stranger 
was the Saint himself, the blessed Yves. Susan was 
thrilled, but Joe whispered to her, “Do you believe that 
yarn, Sue?” and she whispered back, “Yes.” He 
squeezed her arm as he replied, “Lawsy, you are a 
blessed little fool!” 

But the great impression remained of poverty and 
pain parading before a comparatively prosperous and 
healthy crowd, who regarded the unfortunate with 

47 


Quinneys’ 

kindly and compassionate eyes. Susan was melted to 
tears, but Joe said emphatically: 

“What do you make of this show?” 

She replied hesitatingly, “They recognize that the poor 
must be always with them.” 

Joe persisted. 

“How does this apply to you and me ?” 

“We must help when we can, dear.” 

“We have to help, Sue. Rates and taxes. By Gum, 
I’ve never seen such a lot of wretched devils in all my 
life. And the sight o’ their misery just hits a particular 
nail of mine bang on the head. Drives it home, like. 
Me and you must never be poor. We must pull together 
against the remotest chance o’ poverty.” 

“They can’t help it, Joe.” 

“Perhaps not, but we can.” 

They returned in a chastened mood to the excellent 
dinner provided at the inn. 


IV 

Next day they paid a visit to the great artist, who 
reproduced so wonderfully pieces of old furniture. For- 
tunately for the Quinneys, the Englishman, whom they 
had met at the Pardon, accompanied them. He hap- 
pened to be staying at the same inn, and knew le pays 
Tregorrois as well as, indeed much better than, Quin- 
ney knew Melshire. Also he spoke French fluently, and 
could make himself understood in Breton. Lastly, he 
was something of a collector of Breton faience and old 
oak, a buyer in a small way of chests and panelling. 
The Quinneys interested him enormously. Joe was evi- 
dently an original, and Susan, as evidently, the reverse, 
48 


The Pleasant Land of France 


and the more attractive on that account in masculine 
eyes. He swooped upon the immense differences in the 
characters of bride and groom, having the instinct of 
the explorer, and promised himself some amusement in 
studying them. Joe had been as frank with him as he 
was with Mrs. Biddlecombe. 

“I’ve powers within me,” he explained, over a matu- 
tinal pipe. “They push me on — see?” 

George Le Marchant nodded, smiling pleasantly. 

“Pushed you across the Channel?” he suggested. 

“Just so. Beastly crossin’ — humiliatin’. Felt like a 
scoured worm !” 

Susan interrupted. She saw that Le Marchant, al- 
though he wore shabby clothes, was a gentleman. 

“That’ll do, Joe.” 

“Nearly did ‘do’ for me. The wife” — he liked this 
expression, having heard Pinker use it — “the wife fairly 
wallered in it. Blue water, wind and waves — ugh!” 

“It would have been just lovely,” Susan admitted, “if 
Mr. Quinney ” 

“Hadn’t ’ad his bloomin’ head in a basin. No, I ain’t 
going to say another word. Disgusting about fits it. 
Well, I was saying it was something stronger than meself 
drove me out of good old England.” 

“Mr. Tamlin,” put in Susan. She added for the bene- 
fit of the stranger, “He’s a big London dealer.” 

Joe snorted. 

“Tamlin ain’t stronger than me, Susan. He’s bigger 
in the trade, that’s all, and come to his full growth, too. 
I’m sorter speak sproutin’. Do you know Tamlin, of the 
Fulham Road?” 

“Oh yes.” 

Le Marchant smiled faintly. Quinney, intent upon 

49 


Quinneys’ 

his own glorification, missed a derisive expression, but 
Susan was sharper. She decided instantly that there had 
been “dealings” between the great Tamlin and this nice 
gentleman, and that they had not been entirely satis- 
factory. Joe continued, warming to his work: 

“Tamlin told me about this faker of old oak.” 

“But he’s not a faker. Really, you must purge your 
mind of that. He’s an artist. Dealers, of course, buy 
his reproductions and sell them again as authentic 
antiques, but he sells them at a moderate price for what 
they are — superb copies. They are so masterly in every 
detail that you won’t know the copy from the original 
when you see both together.” 

“Oh, won’t I?” said Quinney. “I’ve a lot to learn, 
and I’m learning something every day, but old oak is 
my hobby. I’ve handled it since I was a baby, and I 
shall know.” 

“We’ll see,” said Le Marchant, smiling. “What did 
you think of the Pardon yesterday?” 

He addressed Susan, but Joe answered, taking for 
granted that his opinion was worth something. 

“Rum show! Very — French, hey? Praying hard all 
the morning didn’t prevent ’em from getting jolly tight 
in the afternoon.” 

Le Marchant laughed. 

“These are Bretons, Mr. Quinney. Celts, not Latins.” 

He began to explain, talking very pleasantly, with a 
knowledge of his subject which challenged Susan’s at- 
tention. She liked to hear about people so different from 
herself; their quaint superstitions, their ardent beliefs, 
and the primitive simplicity of their lives appealed to 
her strangely. But she was quick to perceive that Joe 
was bored. His shrewd face wore an expression gradu- 
50 


The Pleasant Land of France 

ally becoming familiar to her. Later he would say that 
there was nothing “in” such talk. It didn’t lead any- 
where; at any rate not in the directions whither Susan 
and he were steering. Why couldn’t Le Marchant talk 
about that Quimper pottery, those jolly old figures of the 
Saints and Saintesses. A man might pick up a wrinkle 
or two worth something listening to that. He knocked 
the ashes from his pipe and rose to his feet. 

“Ain’t we wastin’ valuable time?” he asked. 

V 

The establishment of the master copyist much im- 
pressed Quinney on account of its size. The visitors 
were shown everything, and the proprietor said to Mrs. 
Quinney : 

“Vous voyez, madame, je ne cache pas mon.jeu, moi.” 

“What’s he sayin’?” asked Joe. 

Le Marchant answered. 

“He assures us that he’s not a faker.” 

They beheld tanks of acid in which new ironwork 
was placed. In a few hours or days the corroding acid 
achieved the work of years. There were piles of wood, 
new and old, awaiting treatment. Quinney asked if 
there was a worm-holing machine. He had heard that 
one had been patented. The proprietor laughed. 

“The worms themselves do the work here, monsieur.” 

Then he placed in Joe’s hands two wooden candlesticks. 

“One of these,” said he, “is genuine, and worth its 
weight in gold, a fine specimen of the sixteenth century. 
The other was made here within a year. Which is 
which?” 

“Lawsy!” said Quinney. “I ought to know.” 

He examined them very carefully, and guessed wrong. 

5i 


Quinneys’ 

Le Marchant smiled, well pleased, because he had 
predicted truly. The proprietor pointed to a bureau of 
oak, exquisitely carved. 

“Is that old or new, monsieur ?” 

Quinney spent five minutes in examining the speci- 
men, feeling the “patine,” scraping it with his nail, 
staring through his glass at the marks of the chisels. 

“It’s old,” said he at last. 

“It’s quite new, monsieur.” 

“Fm fairly done,” said Joe. “This beats the world, 
this does.” 

“That piece,” said the proprietor, “is signed by me 
here,” and he showed Quinney two interlaced initials, 
cleverly concealed. “The original is in the Cluny, and 
valued by experts at four thousand pounds. I can sell 
it for sixteen pounds.” 

“Mark it 'sold/ ” said Joe. 

He bought chests old and new, panelling, tables and 
chairs, desks and wardrobes. The proprietor smiled, 
rubbing his hands together. 

“Obviously, monsieur is in the business?” 

“I am,” replied Quinney, “and, by Gum, I thought 
I knew my business till I met you.” 

Le Marchant acted as interpreter. The three returned 
to Treguier and breakfasted upon the small terrace over- 
looking the Jaudy. Quinney was in the highest spirits. 
But to Susan’s dismay, he talked of returning to Eng- 
land and finishing their honeymoon in a country where 
a man could make himself understood. What about 
Weymouth? What price nice sands? He assured Le 
Marchant that his Susan liked paddling, because she 
could show a neat pair of ankles. Also they could nip 
over to Dorchester. Rare place that for old stuff! In- 
52 


The Pleasant Land of France 


evitably he returned to his business with an enthusiasm 
which indicated that he found it more engrossing than 
ordinary honeymooning. Susan listened with a tiny 
wrinkle between her smooth brows. When Quinney 
rushed upstairs to fill his pouch with English tobacco, 
Le Marchant said thoughtfully: 

'‘Wonderfully keen, isn’t he?” 

The swiftness of her answer surprised him. 

“Do you think he’s too keen ?” 

He evaded the eager question. 

“As for that, Mrs. Quinney, one can hardly be too 
keen in business nowadays.” 

“I meant — is he too keen for his own happiness ?” 

He hesitated. On the morrow he would go his way, 
and, humanly speaking, there was little probability of 
his meeting this particular couple again. He wondered 
vaguely what the future held for them. Then he 
shrugged his shoulders and laughed. 

“His keenness might make for his happiness. I di- 
vide the people I know into two classes, those who care 
for things and those who care for persons.” 

“Surely a man can care for both?” 

“One must be the dominant interest.” 

“You think it’s bad to care too much for things?” 

“You are very sharp. However, in this case there 
isn’t much cause for serious alarm.” 

“Why not?” 

He stared pensively at her charming face, thinking 
that Quinney was indeed a lucky fellow to have cap- 
tured and captivated so sweet a creature. 

“Well, you stand between him and false gods.” 

“False gods! What a good way of describing faked 
Chelsea figures!” 


53 


CHAPTER IV 


THE INSTALLATION 

I 

M RS. BIDDLECOMBE welcomed the homing couple 
when they returned to the Dream Cottage, but 
she positively refused to forsake the semi-detached in 
Laburnum Row, although Quinney, for his part, was 
willing to entertain a mother-in-law indefinitely, if Susan 
wished it. Susan, rather to his surprise, did not wish 
it. And the obvious fact that her husband considered 
the matter of small importance slightly distressed her, 
as indicating an abnormal indifference to persons which 
contrasted oddly with his absorption in things of wood 
and stone, graven images, let us call them, which the 
almighty Tamlin had set up in the freshly decorated 
and enlarged premises in Mel Street. Tamlin, indeed, 
had sent down a lot of stuff, and some of it was very 
good. Joe could hardly tear himself from the porcelain, 
and gloated over the blue and white, so Susan affirmed, 
as if he wished to kiss it. 

The London dealer followed his crates. 

He expressed unqualified approval of what Joe had 
bought in Brittany, taking, however, most of the credit 
to himself, inasmuch as he had despatched Quinney to 
Treguier. The younger man grinned, wondering what 
Tamlin would say when he beheld the Dream Cottage 
and its furniture. He arranged that Mrs. Biddlecombe 
54 


The Installation 


should be present upon that memorable occasion, for he 
was well aware that the good soul did not share his 
enthusiasm for mahogany, and that she resented his 
criticism of her burked schemes of decoration. 

Need it be recorded that Quinney triumphed? Tam- 
lin was so impressed that he said gaspingly, ‘Til take 
the lot off your hands, Joe, at a twenty-five per cent, 
advance/’ 

“No, you won’t!” replied Joe. “Our furniture is not 
for sale, old man. Not yet, by Gum!” 

“You are a wonder!” said Tamlin generously. 

“Isn’t he?” exclaimed Susan. 

It was a great moment. 

Late dinner followed, a par tie carree. Joe provided 
champagne, and port in a cut-glass decanter. Warmed 
by this splendid hospitality, Tamlin became anecdotal. 
Perhaps he wanted to astonish the ladies. Unquestion- 
ably he succeeded in doing so. One story will suffice 
to illustrate Tamlin’s methods, and it was told, be it 
remembered, with exuberant chucklings within two hun- 
dred yards of the Cathedral Close. 

“It’s becoming harder every day, ma’am,” he addressed 
Mrs. Biddlecombe, “to get hold of the right stuff — cheap. 
I have agents everywhere. Old Mr. Quinney was one. 
And now and again they hear of a real bargain. Often 
as not the people who ’ave it won’t part. They would 
part, ma’am, if they was offered the right price, but that 
wouldn’t be business. No. Well, only the other day, 
I got hold of the sweetest table, genuine Adam, and 
hand-painted! Paid a fiver for it !” 

“Really, did you now?” murmured Mrs. Biddlecombe. 
For all she knew a “fiver” might be a large or a small 
price. Tamlin continued: 


55 


Quinneys’ 

“Yes, ma’am, a fi’ pun note. It was this way. The 
table belonged to a decayed gentlewoman, who’d seen 
better days, and needed money.” 

Mrs. Biddlecombe sighed; the anecdote had become 
almost personal, and therefore the more interesting. 

“That may happen to any of us,” she murmured. 

“She had inherited this table from her grandma,” con- 
tinued Tamlin, “and my agent heard of it, and saw it. 
He offered the old lady four pun ten, and she wouldn’t 
deal. Obstinate as a mule she was!” 

“Sensible old dear, I call her,” said Quinney. 

“My agent was fairly boiled, and then inspiration 
struck him. He never went near the old gal for a couple 
of months. Then he called with a friend, a stout, red- 
faced man, bit of an amateur actor. My agent intro- 
duced him as a collector of choice bits. Asked if he 
might show him the little table. Old lady was willing 
enough, and of course the low comedy feller crabbed 
it.” 

“Stale dodge that,” remarked Quinney. 

“Wait a bit. After crabbin’ it, he pretended to be 
interested in other things; and then he began to act 
queer. He’d slipped a bit o’ soap into his mouth, so as 
to froth proper.” 

“Gracious me! Why?” asked Mrs. Biddlecombe. 

“Then he went into a regular fit, fell down, and as 
he fell grabbed the little table, and broke off one of 
its pretty spindle legs. When he come out of his fit, my 
agent said that the least thing a gentleman could do was 
to buy the table he’d spoiled. The old lady took a fiver 
as compensation, and jolly glad she was to get it. I sold 
that table to an American millionaire for one hundred 
and twenty-five — guineas !” 

56 


The Installation 


Mrs. Biddlecombe rose majestically. She saw that her 
son-in-law was laughing. 

“Come, Susan, let us leave these gentlemen to their 
wine.” 

Susan followed her out of the room. When the door 
was shut behind them, Quinney said : 

“Old man, that yarn was a bit too thick for ’em. 
See?” 

Tamlin laughed boisterously. 

“One more glass of port,” he replied, “and I’ll tell 
you another.” 

He told several; and when the men returned to the 
small drawing-room, Susan said timidly that her mother 
had gone back to Laburnum Row. Later, when she was 
alone with her husband, she asked a sharp question : 

“Joe, dear, you wouldn’t have done what Mr. Tamlin . 
did, would you?” 

“About what, Sue?” 

“About that table. Mother and I thought it was hor- 
rid of him to take advantage of a poor old lady.” 

Joe evaded the question cleverly: 

“Look ye here, my girl, Tamlin is — well, Tamlin. 
Don’t you mix him up with me.” 

“But, Joe, you are mixed up with him — in business.” 

“Temporary arrangement, my pretty, nothing more.” 

He kissed her, murmuring, “Blessed little saint you 
are!” 

II 

Melchester was profoundly interested in the new 
premises, and the other dealers in genuine antiques went 
about, so Quinney affirmed, chattering with rage, and 
predicting ruin. 


5 7 


Quinneys’ 

“They’ll be ruined/’ said Quinney, chuckling and rub- 
bing his hands. “Nobody will buy their muck, and they 
know it.” 

He had very nice hands, with long slender fingers, 
manifestly fashioned to pick up egg-shell china. Also 
in spite of his accent, which time might reasonably be 
expected to improve, his voice held persuasive inflections, 
and the resonant timbre of the enthusiast, likely to ring 
in the memories of too timid customers, the collectors 
who stare at bargains twice a day till they are snapped 
up by somebody else. Quinney despised these Laodiceans 
in his heart, but he told Susan that they did well enough 
to practise upon. 

“You want to get the patter,” he told his wife, “and 
the best and quickest way is to turn loose on the think 
it overs. See ?” 

It had long been arranged between them that Susan 
was to help in the shop and acquire at first hand inti- 
mate knowledge of a complex business. Quinney 
summed up the art of selling stuff in a few pregnant 
words. 

“Find out what they want, and don’t be too keen 
to sell to ’em. Most men, my pretty, and nearly all the 
women, go dotty over the things hardest to get. Our 
best stuff will sell itself, if we go slow. Old silver is 
getting scarcer every day.” 

Susan smiled at her Joe’s words of wisdom. He con- 
tinued fluently: “We’ve a lot to learn; something new 
every hour. And we shall make bloomin’ errors, again 
and again. All dealers do. Tamlin was had to rights 
only last week over two Chippendale chairs; and he 
thinks he knows all about ’em. I’ve been done proper 
over that coffee-pot.” 

58 


The Installation 


He showed her a massive silver coffee-pot with finely 
defined marks upon it. 

“A genuine George II. bit, Susie, and worth its weight 
in gold if it hadn’t been tampered with by some fool 
later on. All that repousse work is George IV., and I 
never knew it. The worst fakes is the half genuine 
ones.” 

'‘Gracious !” exclaimed his pupil. 

“There are lots o’ things I don’t know, and don’t un- 
derstand, my girl; all the more reason to hold tight on 
to what I do know. And what I know I’ll try to share 
with you, and what you know you’ll try to share with 
me.” 

“I’m stupid about things,” said Susan. 

Quinney strolled across the room, and selected two 
jars more or less alike in shape and paste and colour. 

“Can you tell t’other from which?” he asked. “Look 
at ’em, feel ’em inside and out.” 

Susan obeyed, but after a minute she shook her head. 

“Ain’t they just alike, Joe?” 

“Lord, no! One’s the real old blue and white, hand- 
painted, and worth fifty pound. T’other is a repro- 
duction, printed stuff, with a different glaze. Look 
again, my pretty!” 

“This is the old one, Joe.” 

“No, it ain’t. Slip your hand inside. Which is the 
smoother and better finished inside ?” 

“Yes, I feel the difference, but I don’t see it. I wish 
I could see it.” 

“You will. I’m going to put a little chipped bit of the 
best on your toilet table. You just squint at it twenty 
times a day for one year, and you’ll know something. 
That’s what I’m doing with the earlier stuff, which is 

59 


Quinneys’ 

more difficult to be sure of, because it doesn’t look so 
good. I wouldn’t trust my judgment to buy it. That’s 
Tamlin’s job.” 

Susan frowned. 

“I don’t like Mr. Tamlin, Joe.” 

“Never asked you to like him, but we can learn a lot 
from Tamlin. See? He’s an expert upon Chinese and 
Japanese porcelain and lac. We’ve got to suck his 
brains.” 

“Ugh!” said Susan. 

During these first few weeks she displayed great apti- 
tude as a saleswoman. Her face, so ingenuous in its 
expression, her soft voice, her pretty form attracted 
customers. The price of every article in the shop was 
marked in letters which she could turn into figures. But 
this price was a “fancy one,” what Quinney termed a 
“top-notcher.” Susan was instructed to take a third 
less. Quinney trained her to answer awkward questions, 
to make a pretty picture of ignorance, to pose effectively 
as the inexperienced wife keeping the shop during the 
absence of her husband. He had said upon the morning 
of the grand opening of Quinneys “I don’t want you 
to tell lies, Sue.” 

“I wouldn’t for the world,” she replied. 

He pinched her chin, chuckling derisively, “I know 
you wouldn’t; but I don’t want you to tell all the truth, 
neither.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“This oak now. Me and you know it’s new, but if a 
customer tells you it’s old, don’t contradict him. 
’Twouldn’t be polite. All you know about it is this — 
your clever hubby picked it up in France, in Brittany. 
See?” 


60 


The Installation 


She asked anxiously, “It won't be acting a lie, dear?" 

“Not a bit of it! By Gum, Sue, Fm as proud of that 
conscience of yours as I am of that jar. Not a flaw in 
either." 

After this she played her part so artlessly that Joe 
chuckled half a dozen times a day. She tackled the 
Bishop — alone. Quinney saw the great man approaching 
and told Susan. She wished to bolt, but Quinney dis- 
appeared instead, listening to the duologue that followed. 
The Bishop stared at the fine wares from Tamlin’s, 
whipped out his spectacles, and entered, smiling at 
Susan’s blushing face. 

“Good-morning, my lord!" 

“Good-morning, Mrs. Quinney. May I look at some 
of these tempting things?" 

He looked at what was best amongst the porcelain 
sent down by Tamlin, displaying knowledge of the dif- 
ferent periods. Then he said courteously, “As this is my 
first visit, I must buy something for luck. What is the 
price of that small jar with the prunus decoration? If 
it is within my means " 

He paused, gravely expectant, but Susan divined some- 
how what was flitting through his mind, the outrageous 
prices exacted by old Quinney. She perceived that this 
was a test purchase. The price of the jar was marked 
five pounds. Susan said demurely, “We can sell this to 
you, my lord, for three pounds ten." 

“I’ll take it, Mrs. Quinney." 

He went away with his purchase in his hand. Quin- 
ney came back, not too well pleased. 

“He’d have given a fiver for it. Why didn’t you ask 
more than we was prepared to take?" 

Susan, knowing her own strength, answered decisively : 

61 


Quinneys’ 

“His lordship confirmed me, Joe.” 

“What’s that got to do with it?” 

“He knows about china. He passed by the inferior 
stuff. I wanted him to tell his friends that our prices 
were very reasonable; and I wanted him to come again. 
He promised that he would. And I think the clergy, our 
own clergy, ought to be treated — generously.” 

“By Gum, you’re right!” said Quinney. “They’ll tell 
the old women that our prices touch bottom, reg’lar bar- 
gains.” 

She was equally successful with Mrs. Nish, a widow 
of ample means and an ardent collector. Mrs. Nish may 
have seen the Bishop’s jar and have learned from him 
that it had been bought at a modest figure. She came 
in next day, richly rustling in black silk, a large, impos- 
ing woman, with a deportment that indicated opulence 
and a complexion heightened by good living. Mr. Nish 
had accumulated a fortune in Australia, sheep- farming, 
and had died — as so many such men do — when he re- 
tired from active business. His widow bought a large 
house standing in a small garden, just outside Mel- 
chester. The Close called upon her (not the County), 
because she subscribed generously to local charities. Her 
taste, however, was flamboyantly rococo; and on that 
account Quinney despised her, although he admitted to 
Susan that she might be educated. When he beheld her 
pair of prancing bays, he whispered to Susan, “Have a 
go at the old girl!” Then he retreated discreetly to 
his inner room. 

Mrs. Nish greeted Susan with much affability, and 
immediately mentioned the Bishop, “my lording” him 
with unction. The jar with prunus decoration was 
spoken of as a little prune pot. 

62 


The Installation 


“I want one just like it.” 

‘Tm afraid,” said Susan, “that you will not find an- 
other just like it.” 

“As near as may be,” said Mrs. Nish. 

“The only other jar with similar decoration, and of 
the same period, is this.” 

She displayed the finest jar in their possession, adding, 
“The price is fifty pounds.” 

Mrs. Nish was tremendously impressed. 

“It can’t be worth all that,” she protested. 

“I think his lordship would tell you that it was. We 
don’t expect to sell it. In fact it belongs to somebody 
else. We get a small commission if it is sold.” 

Susan carefully replaced the jar, and picked up its 
counterfeit. 

“This is modern, madam, a very clever reproduction, 
made by the same factory in China. We ask five pounds 
for this.” 

“I don’t buy fakes.” 

“Of course not, madam. My husband says Lord Mel 
has not a finer piece of blue and white than that.” 

Mrs. Nish turned aside to examine the oak, but her 
eyes wandered now and again to the big jar. Susan 
knew that she was thinking how pleasant it would be to 
say carelessly, “Oh, yes; I paid fifty pounds for that.” 

Quinney carried the jar to her house late that after- 
noon, and he told Susan that she was a clever dear. 

“You like the work?” he asked. 

She hesitated. 

“I like being with you, Joe.” 

“Good! You can consider yourself permanently en- 
gaged, Mrs. Quinney.” 

“Permanently ?” 

63 


Quinneys’ 

His quick ear detected an odd inflection. He glanced 
at her sharply, and saw a faint blush. In silence they 
stared at each other. Then Quinney kissed her, pinched 
her cheek, pulled her small ear, as he said boisterously : 

“Ho ! Another job in view ?” 

She whispered: 

“I— I think so ” 


64 


CHAPTER V 


SUSAN PREPARES 

I 

W HEN Susan left the shop and returned to her own 
house to make preparations for a visitor, she went 
unwillingly, postponing the hour that meant separation 
from the man she loved, making light of his anxiety, but 
secretly rejoicing in it. Her faithful heart dwelt with 
apprehension upon a future spent apart from Joe, apart 
from the excitements of the shop, a future of small things 
and small people. She tried to visualize herself as a 
mother and the vision was blurred. When she said 
rather timidly, “What will you do without me?” he had 
assured her with vain repetitions that he had more than 
enough to occupy his mind. The dolorous conclusion 
was inevitable. Joe could get along without a partner 
in the shop. But she could not conceive of life without 
him. 

During this period of intermittent joys and fears, 
chasing each other daily and nightly through her brain, 
Susan was humorously conscious that Joe regarded the 
coming baby as his rather than hers. He would say, 
chuckling, “Well, Mrs. Q., how is my baby this morn- 
ing? Any news of him?” The sex of the child was 
taken for granted. Susan had sufficient obstinacy and 
spirit to resent this cocksure attitude. From the first 
she maintained that it would be a girl. Mrs. Biddle- 

65 


Quinneys’ 

combe was much shocked at the intimate nature of con- 
versations carried on before her. The good woman 
belonged to a generation which never mentioned babies 
till they lay in bassinettes, fit to be seen and worshipped 
by all the world. Quinney trampled upon these genteel 
sensibilities. 

“The kid is cornin’ — ain’t it?” 

“We hope so,” replied his mother-in-law austerely. 

“We know it, old dear. Why not talk about it? Joe 
Quinney, junior! There you are!” 

“It sounds so — indelicate.” 

“That be blowed for a tale ! Lawsy, there’s no saying 
what my son may not be. Think o’ my brains and his 
dear little mother’s looks.” Worse followed. He be- 
gan to call Susan “mother.” Mrs. Biddlecombe protested 
in vain. Laburnum Row laughed openly. Everybody 
knew! One terrible morning, a disgusting small boy 
shouted after her, “Hullo, gran’ma !” 

Mrs. Biddlecombe, moreover, had no sympathy with 
Susan’s ardent desire to remain near her husband, inti- 
mately connected with the things which interested him 
so tremendously. She lacked the quickness of wit to 
perceive what Susan instinctively recognized, the increas- 
ing and ever-absorbing love that this queer young man 
manifested for his business. In that business, in the 
unwearying quest for beautiful objects, the wife fore- 
shadowed a rival, a rival the more to be feared because 
it was amorphous, senseless, chaotic. She took little 
pleasure in the beautiful furniture which filled the Dream 
Cottage, because she could never feel that it was hers. 
She would have chosen things which he despised as rub- 
bish, but they would have been very dear to her. In a 
real sense Joe’s furniture stood massively between hus- 
66 


Susan Prepares 

band and wife. Again and again when she was hunger- 
ing for soft words and caresses, he would stand in front 
of the Chippendale china cabinet, and apostrophize it 
with ardour, calling upon Susan to share his enthusiasm, 
slightly irritable with her when she failed to perceive 
the beauty in what she summed up in her own mind as 
“sticks and stones.” She hated to see him stroke fine 
specimens of porcelain. She came within an ace of 
smashing a small but valuable Ming jar because he 
kissed it. Her condition must be taken into account, but 
above and beyond any physical cause soared the convic- 
tion, that her Joe's business might become the greatest 
thing in his life, growing, as he predicted it would, to 
such enormous proportions that there would be no room 
for her. Once she prayed that his soaring ambitions 
might be clipped by a merciful Providence. She rose 
from her knees trembling at her audacity, telling herself 
that she was disloyal. And then she laughed, half hys- 
terically, supremely sensible that her Joe would travel 
far upon the road he had chosen, and that it behoved 
her to quicken her steps, and not to lag behind, for it 
was certain that he would expect her to keep up. 

She had to pass some lonely hours. Mrs. Biddle- 
combe neglected no duties connected with her own house, 
and the work at the Dream Cottage was done ade- 
quately by the competent servant whom Mrs. Biddle- 
combe had installed there, and over whom she exercised 
a never-flagging vigilance. Quinney issued orders that 
the mistress was to be spared. She was quite capable 
of doing many things which the robust Maria would 
not allow her to do. Even the delight of sewing upon 
minute garments was circumscribed. Quinney, after 
secret “colloguing” with Mrs, Biddlecombe, prepared a 

67 


Quinneys’ 

surprise. An amazing basket arrived from London, 
embellished with pale blue riband, and filled with a lay- 
ette fit — so the advertisement said — for “a little lord.” 

Quinney attached a label inscribed with the following 
legend : 

“To Joseph Quinney, Jr., Esq., care of Mother.” 

Susan’s feelings upon the receipt of this superb and 
complete outfit — I quote again from the advertisement — 
were of the bitterest — sweetest. She had set her heart 
upon making her child’s clothes, and she sewed ex- 
quisitely. She had to pretend that she was overwhelmed 
with surprise and gratitude, and Joe’s delight in her 
simulated delight partly compensated her for being so 
grossly deceitful. Wild plans entered her head for com- 
passing the destruction of the layette. During one awful 
moment she experienced the monstrous thrills of a Nero, 
for the thought had come to her, “Why not burn the 
furniture and the basket together?” The cottage and 
furniture were handsomely insured! A mild perspira- 
tion broke upon her forehead, as she murmured to her- 
self : 

“What a wicked, wicked girl I am !” 

II 

She distracted her mind by reading novels, and was 
mightily interested in the works of Rosa Nouchette 
Carey. In the middle of the day Joe would rush in, 
kiss her tenderly, inquire after Master Quinney, sit down 
to dinner, and chatter boisterously of his business. His 
solicitude for her comfort never failed, but its insistence 
became enervating. She had excellent health, and was 
happily free from the minor ills which afflict many 
68 


Susan Prepares 

women in her condition. But this sort of talk became 
exasperatingly monotonous : 

“Feelin’ fine, are you?” 

“Oh yes, Joe.” 

“Any one bloomin’ thing you fancy ?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Not worriting? No stewin’ in your own juice, hey?” 

“No, no, no !” 

“Good. Everything is going to be all right; lucky 
little dear, you are, to have a hubby who looks after 
you properly, and Joe Quinney, junior, will be looked 
after also. Make no error about that. He’s going to be 
a very remarkable young man! Chose his parents with 
rare right judgments he did. By Gum, when I read 
that little ‘ad.’ about his kit bein’ fit for a lord, I says to 
myself, ‘Why not? Why shouldn’t my son be a lord 
one day?”’ 

“Joe, you are funny!” 

“Funny? I’m dead serious, my girl. This stream,” 
he tapped an inflated chest, “rose higher than its source. 
It began not far from the gutter, Susie. I’m not ashamed 
of it. Nothing of the snob about Joe Quinney! I’m a 
bit of a river. I’m marked on the map. I flow all over 
the shop; yes, I do. And my son may become a sort of 
Amazon. Do you know how many square miles the 
Amazon waters ?” 

“Gracious, no!” 

“Useful bit of knowledge. Nigh upon three million 
square miles !” 

“Mercy!” 

“I see Joe Quinney, junior, percolatin’ everywhere, 
bang from one end of the Empire to another.” 

“She’s not born yet, poor little dear!” 


69 


Quinneys’ 

“She! There you go again.” 

“Fm sure it will be a 'she/ ” 

“Not him. You trust my judgment. It’s a gift with 
me. All great men have it. Bonyparte and Wellington 
and Julius Caesar.” 

“You do go it.” 

“That’s right. Do for a motto, that would. Go it! 
Keep a-moving! The people in this silly old town are 
standin’ still, up to their knees in their graves already, 
poor souls!” 

Then he would kiss her again, and bolt off to the shop, 
chuckling and rubbing his hands. 

Susan would return to her novel, and bury hopes and 
fears in the mild adventures of a conventional and highly 
respectable pair of lovers. She had always liked sweets, 
but at this period she enjoyed a surfeit of them. The 
sentiment that exuded from every page of her favourite 
romances affected her tremendously, and may have af- 
fected her unborn child. 


Ill 

Upon the eve of the child’s birth, nearly a year after 
her marriage, Susan wrote a letter to her husband. She 
had spent the day pottering about her bedroom, turning 
over certain clothes, notably her wedding-gown, and re- 
calling vividly the events succeeding her marriage, the 
journey to France, all the pleasant incidents of the honey- 
moon. From a small desk which had belonged to her 
father, a solid rosewood box clamped with brass, she took 
certain “treasures,” a bit of heather picked by Joe when 
they took a jaunt together to the New Forest, a trinket 
or two, a lock of Joe’s hair, his letters tied up in pink ri- 
70 


Susan Prepares 

band, and her birth certificate, solemnly thrust into her 
hand by Mrs. Biddlecombe upon the morning of the 
wedding. Inside the desk remained a few sheets of the 
“fancy” note paper which she had used as a maid. She 
selected a new nib, placed it in an ivory penholder, and 
began to write: 

“My Darling Husband, 

“I want to tell you that the last year has been 
the happiest of my life. I don’t believe that I can 
ever be quite so happy again. You have been sweet 
to me. When I have tried to tell you this, you have 
always laughed, and so I want to write it down. 

“Your loving 

“Susie.” 

P. S . — I hope you will marry again. 

She placed the letter in an envelope to match, ad- 
dressed it, and wrote above it, “To be opened after my 
death.” Then she shed a few tears, feeling lonely and 
frightened, peering into the gulf which yawned in front 
of her, knowing that the hour was almost at hand, when 
she must fall down, down, down into unplumbed abysses 
of terror and pain. 

She locked up the letter in the desk, put on a cloak, 
and crawled into the Cathedral, whose vastness always 
impressed her. The great nave was strangely familiar, 
yet unfamiliar. A soft, silvery light diffused itself. 
Susan noticed that she was alone, whereas she was ac- 
customed to the Sunday crowd. The silence seemed to 
enfold her. It struck her suddenly that for many hours 
during each day and night the great church wherein she 
had worshipped since she was a child was empty and 
silent, a mere sepulchre of the mighty dead, who, lying 

71 


Quinneys’ 

in their splendid tombs, awaited the Day of Resurrec- 
tion. 

Did they ever come forth at night? 

What did it feel like to be dead? 

Such questions had never seriously presented them- 
selves to her before, because she was normally healthy 
in mind and body. Death, indeed, had been acclaimed in 
Laburnum Row as a not unwelcome excitement for the 
living, an incident that loosened all tongues, which called 
for criticism, and a good deal of eating and drinking. 
Now, alone amongst the dead, Susan considered the in- 
evitable change from the point of view, so to speak, of 
those who were “taken.” She was accustomed to these 
odd middle-class euphuisms. This particular expression, 
invariably used by Mrs. Biddlecombe, indicated a certain 
selection upon the part of the Reaper, who “took” pre- 
sumably those, whether young or old, who were ripe for 
the sickle. 

Susan shivered, prayed fervently that she might be 
spared, that she might be deemed unripe. Her thoughts 
flitted hither and thither, not straying far from the 
austere figure with the sickle, settling now upon this 
hypothesis and now upon that. For example, the com- 
monest form of condolence in Laburnum Row, leaping 
smugly from every matronly lip, was, “He (or she) has 
entered into rest.” Or, with tearful conviction, “God’s 
will be done.” To doubt the truth of these statements 
would have seemed to Susan rank blasphemy. Even 
now, face to face with the awful possibility, her simple 
mind sucked comfort from them; they fortified her 
trembling body for the great ordeal. But, at the same 
time, she was conscious of a feeling of revolt, because 
72 


Susan Prepares 

life was so sweet, and her enchanting pilgrimage had just 
begun. It would be cruel to take her ! 

And how would it affect Joe? 

He would have his business; he would absorb him- 
self in that. If he did marry again he would choose 
some sensible woman, able to look after his house and 
his child. She could not bear the horrid thought that a 
second wife might be prettier than the first, that her Joe 
might forget her kisses upon the lips of another woman. 
She murmured to herself, “Joe can't do without me. I 
shall not be taken this time." 

She went back to the Dream Cottage, unlocked her 
desk, opened her letter, and added these words to the 
postscript : 

“Marry a nice sensible woman, not quite so pretty as 
I am, one who will be kind to my baby." 

She stared at this for some time, pursing up her lips. 
Then she carefully erased the possessive pronoun, and 
wrote “your" instead of “my." 

She was smiling when she locked the desk. 

IV 

Ten days afterwards the child was born. Quinney 
was summoned at four in the afternoon by the breathless 
Maria, who gasped out that he was wanted. Somehow 
Quinney leapt to the conclusion that all was over. 

“Is the baby born?" asked Quinney. 

“No, nor likely to be till after midnight." 

She whisked off, leaving an astonished man vaguely 
wondering from what source Maria had received this 
positive information. He closed the shop, and then ran 
home. The doctor was leaving the cottage. Again Quin- 
ney stammered out. 


73 


Quinneys’ 


“Is it over?” 

“Just begun,” the doctor replied. Quinney hated him 
because he looked so blandly self-possessed and indif- 
ferent. 

“Mrs. Biddlecombe is with her,” continued the doctor, 
in the same suavely impassive tone. “They will send for 
me later. Good-afternoon !” 

Quinney wanted to reply, “Oh, you go to blazes! I 
shall send for somebody else; a man, not a machine,” 
but he merely glared at the doctor, and nodded. Pelting 
upstairs, two steps at a time, he encountered Mrs. Bid- 
dlecombe upon the landing, with her forefinger on her 
lip. 

“Not so much noise, please !” she commanded, with 
the air and deportment of an empress. It struck Quinney 
that she had expanded enormously. Also she was dressed 
for the part, wearing an imposing dressing-gown, and felt 
slippers. Quinney had an odd feeling that she was en- 
joying herself at Susie’s expense. Secretly he was furi- 
ous, because she seemed to block the entrance to his 
room. He tried to push past her. 

“Where are you going, Joseph?” 

He was quite confounded, but from long habit he 
replied in his jerky, whimsical way: 

“Into my room o’ course. Where did you think I 
was going? Into the coal cellar?” 

Mrs. Biddlecombe answered with majesty, not budg- 
ing: 

“We” — Maria was indicated as an accomplice — “have 
got another room ready for you.” 

Quinney said resolutely, “I’m a-going to stay with 
Susie till it’s over.” 

“No, you ain’t!” 

74 


Susan Prepares 


“Yes, I am!” 

She gripped his arm. Her voice was coolly con- 
temptuous, but she spoke with authority. 

“No, you ain’t. ’Tisn’t seemly.” 

“That be damned!” 

“Joseph Quinney! And an innocent unborn babe 
might hear you! Now, listen to me, and do just as I 
tell you. Men ain’t wanted on these occasions. You 
can go in and see Susan for a few minutes, but, remem- 
ber, out you go when I say the word. Try to be a help 
and not a hindrance. I sent for you because you may 
be wanted to run for the doctor.” 

“Run from ’im more likely,” said Quinney. “Cold- 
blooded beast.” 

“He’s just what a gentleman should be at such times. 
You take pattern by him! Now, go in, don’t shout, say 
something cheerful, and leave the room when I nod.” 

Throughout this speech Quinney was conscious that 
his will was ebbing from him. The motheir-in-law 
triumphed by virtue of superior knowledge and experi- 
ence. Quinney respected knowledge. 

“But if Susie wants me to stay ?” 

“She won’t.” 

He entered the room. Somehow he had expected to 
find his wife in bed, pale, frightened, passive. She was 
walking up and down. Her cheeks were red, her eyes 
were bright. And yet there was something about her, 
some hunted expression in the tender eyes, some nervous 
tension which moved the man tremendously. His eyes 
brimmed with tears, his voice broke, as he called her 
by name. For a moment they clung to each other, and 
he wondered at her strength. Mrs. Biddlecombe 
frowned portentously. There were moments when she 

75 


Quinneys’ 

told herself that Susan had married a very common per- 
son. 

“That’ll do,” she said. “We don’t want any flustra- 
tions.” 

Susan murmured: 

“Dear, dear Joe!” 

She pulled down his head and kissed the tears from 
his eyes. It was a moment of pure bliss for her. They 
sat down, holding each other’s hands, oblivious of Mrs. 
Biddlecombe, who still stared at them, trying to re- 
member how the late Mr. Biddlecombe had behaved 
when Susan was born, and vaguely mindful of his con- 
spicuous absence, and the discovery later that he had 
assuaged his anxiety with strong waters. 

Meanwhile, Susan’s tenderness had aroused in her 
husband the determination to vanquish his mother-in- 
law. The power to cope with her surged within. 

“You want me to stay, Susie?” 

“Oh, yes, till the pain comes.” 

“And after?” 

“No, no!” 

“But why, why?” 

She looked prettier and sweeter than he had ever seen 
her when she whispered: 

“I couldn’t bear for you to see my face. It, it,” her 
voice quivered, “it frightens me. Just now I looked in 
the glass, and I didn’t recognize it as mine.” 

“There!” exclaimed Mrs. Biddlecombe. 

“I shall do as Susan wishes,” said Quinney humbly. 

“You will leave the room when I nod?” 

“Please!” said Susan, with her arms about his neck. 

Presently Mrs. Biddlecombe nodded. 


76 


CHAPTER VI 


THE VISITOR ARRIVES 

I 

O UINNEY went downstairs, whistling softly to hide 
a growing perturbation of spirit. He could not 
disguise from himself that he was terribly worried. Till 
now he had bolstered anxiety with the reflection that 
what was happening had happened before to millions 
and billions (he loved big figures) of women, but he had 
never realized that each and all of them had suffered 
cruel pain. When Susan spoke of her changed face, a 
spasm of agony twisted him. He resented fiercely the 
conviction that his wife must suffer, and he divined 
somehow, partly from Mrs. Biddlecombe and partly 
from Susan, that the pain was greater than he had 
supposed. He salved his quivering sensibilities with 
the balm applied to all husbands at such moments; she 
was young, healthy, and strong. She would pull through. 
And yet, the damnable thought that sometimes things 
did happen grew and grew. 

He descended into a modest cellar, and brought up a 
bottle of port, which he decanted carefully. It was the 
best wine that could be bought in Melchester, and he 
had secured a couple of dozen with the intention of 
drinking his son’s health many times. He tasted it to 
satisfy himself that the wine was in prime condition. 
He held it to the light and marked its superb colour. 

77 


Quinneys’ 

Then he sat down to read the paper, as was his habit 
when the day’s work was done. Pinker, the grocer, 
and other men of substance in Melchester, were too fond 
of boasting that they read the morning paper in the 
morning before attending to the paramount claims of 
their own business. This attitude of mind towards the 
affairs of the nation perplexed Quinney, who frankly 
considered his own affairs first. He belonged to that 
once immense majority of his fellow countrymen — a 
majority much decreased of late years — who believe that 
certain altruists manage more or less successfully the 
business of the country. He was quite willing to allow 
these gentlemen, whose services were unpaid, a compara- 
tively free hand upon the unexpressed condition that 
they did not bother him or interfere with the conduct of 
his private affairs. At that time the Tories were in 
power, coming to the end of a long tenure of office. 
Quinney passively approved of the Tories, and actively 
disliked Radicals, whom he stigmatized generally as mis- 
chief-makers. Under certain circumstances he would 
have been a red-hot Radical. During his father’s life- 
time, for instance, when he groaned in secret beneath 
the heel of oppression, he would have been eager — had 
the opportunity presented itself — to join any secret so- 
ciety organized for the overthrow of “tyrants.” 

He read the paper through, criticizing nothing except 
the wording of certain advertisements. He meant to 
advertise his own wares some day, although Tamlin be- 
lieved in more particular methods. In the early nineties, 
small tradesmen had no faith in advertisements. They 
built up a small but solid connection, which they came 
to regard as unalienably theirs. 

78 


The Visitor Arrives 


Presently Quinney lit his pipe, and his thoughts with 
the smoke strayed upstairs. Mrs. Biddlecombe appeared. 

“Smoking ?” 

Quinney, conscious of implied censure, replied de- 
fiantly : 

“Generally called that, ain’t it?” 

“You can smoke outside.” 

“I can, but I won’t. How’s Susie?” 

The inevitable answer distressed him terribly. 

“Susan will be much worse before she’s better. You 
can fetch the nurse and finish your pipe while you are 
fetching her.” 

He fetched the nurse, who lived not far away in a 
row of small jerry-built houses. She was a tall, thin 
woman, with a nice complexion, and hair prematurely 
white. Her invincible optimism much fortified our hero. 
And she possessed an immense reserve of small talk, 
and intimate knowledge of simple, elemental details con- 
nected with her profession. She captured Quinney’s 
affection by saying, after the first glance at his face: 

“Now, don’t you worry, Mr. Quinney, because there’s 
nothing to worry about with Dr. Ransome and me in 
charge of the case. We never have any trouble with 
our patients. You’ll be the proud father of a big fat 
baby-boy before you know where you are.” 

She talked on very agreeably, but she managed to 
convey to her listener that, temporarily, he was an out- 
sider, at the beck and call of women, and regarded 
by them as negligible. This impression became so strong 
that he knocked the ashes and half-consumed tobacco 
out of a second pipe before he entered the Dream Cot- 
tage. The nurse was greeted by Mrs. Biddlecombe 
with majestic courtesy and taken upstairs. 


79 


Quinneys’ 

Once more Quinney found himself alone. 

Feeling much more hopeful, he beguiled another hour 
in examining his furniture and china. It is worth men- 
tioning that already he was able to discern flaws in 
these precious possessions, indicating an eye becoming 
more trained in its quest after perfection. None of 
these household gods were regarded as permanent. They 
would be sold to make room for finer specimens of 
craftsmanship. Amongst his china, he discovered a bo- 
gus bit. Hitherto he had believed it to be a fine speci- 
men. He was half-distressed, half-pleased at the amaz- 
ing discovery. He had paid five pounds for it. The 
paste was all right, but the decoration was unquestion- 
ably of a later period. Half of its value, actual and 
prospective, had vanished. Nevertheless, the gain was 
enormous. Unaided, he had detected the false decora- 
tion, the not quite pure quality of the gilding. 

“I’m climbin’ !” he muttered to himself. 

As he replaced the “fake” in the cabinet, consoling 
himself with the reflection that he could easily resell it 
at the price he had paid, he smelt fried fish. Extremely 
annoyed, he rushed into the kitchen, where Maria was 
caught, red-handed, in the astounding act of frying 
mackerel at six o’clock. 

“What’s the meaning o’ this?” 

Maria answered tartly: 

“Meat tea for you and Mrs. Biddlecombe.” 

She too, ordinarily the respectful menial, dared to 
glare at him, as if resenting his appearance in his own 
kitchen as an unpardonable intrusion. Quinney said 
violently, not sorry to let off steam: 

“What the hell d’ye mean? Meat tea? I eat my 
supper at seven, and you know it!” 

80 


The Visitor Arrives 

Maria tossed her head. 

“You’ll eat it at six to-night. Mrs. Biddlecombe’s 
orders. I shall give notice if you swear at me.” 

He fled — vanquished by another woman. At the door 
he fired a parting shot: 

“Smells all over Melchester. I believe that fish is 
bad.” 

“I didn’t buy it,” replied Maria calmly. 

II 

The meat tea was served, and Mrs. Biddlecombe 
joined Quinney at table. He made no protests, but re- 
fused to touch the mackerel. When interrogated he 
said that he disliked stale fish. 

“Stale fish, Joseph!” 

“Did you buy it?” 

“I did.” 

“Did you choose it?” 

Mrs. Biddlecombe’s ample cheeks turned a deeper 
damask. 

“I did not. I instructed the fishmonger to send round 
some fresh fish.” 

“Thought so!” said Quinney, as he attacked the cold 
beef. 

Unhappily, Mrs. Biddlecombe was beguiled into eat- 
ing heartily of the mackerel, desiring to assert her faith 
in its freshness and her confidence in the fishmonger. 
Conversation languished. Presently, Quinney jumped to 
his feet and raced upstairs. He tapped at his wife’s 
door. The nurse opened it, and as she did so the hus- 
band heard a faint moan. 

“You can’t come in now,” said the nurse. 


81 


Quinneys’ 

“I’m not coming in. You tell my wife, with my love, 
not to eat any mackerel, and don’t you touch it yourself, 
if you want to be fit and well to-night.” 

He returned to the dining-room feeling, for the first 
time, that he had been of practical service to omnipotent 
Woman ! But the faint moan had destroyed his appetite. 
He told Mrs. Biddlecombe that he intended to walk up 
and down the garden. 

“You’ll be within call?” 

“Of course. Any notion when the doctor will be 
wanted ?” 

“He may be wanted at any minute.” 

“You may want him before Susan does!” 

He shut the door before the astonished lady could 
reply. 

Ill 

Alone in the garden so dear to Susan, so carefully 
tended by her, his torment began. The evening was 
warm, and the windows of Susan’s room were thrown 
wide open. All sounds floated out into the gathering 
twilight. Quinney sat down on a bench, and listened, 
palsied with misery. 

The time passed. He would walk about, and then sit 
down again, lighting his pipe and letting it go out half 
a dozen times before it was smoked. Once he ventured 
into the kitchen, where the sight of his face softened 
Maria. She was a spinster, but at least twenty-five 
years old. So Quinney blurted out: 

“Is it always like this?” 

“First time — yes,” replied Maria. 

Finally, Mrs. Biddlecombe descended, and bade him 
fetch the doctor. She was not an observant woman, but 
82 


The Visitor Arrives 


even she, with her prejudice against all males, could 
not fail to mark the ravages of suffering. 

“My God!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “I didn’t know 
it was like this. I’ve heard her !” 

“I do not regret that !” replied Mrs. Biddlecombe, not 
unkindly, but with emphasis. “If I had my way all 
men and all big boys, too, should know what their 
mothers have suffered. They might be kinder to them.” 

Dr. Ransome was fetched. He lived near the Close, 
in a comfortable red-brick house. It seemed to Quin- 
ney perfectly extraordinary that this man of vast ex- 
perience in suffering should be so leisurely in his move- 
ments and speech. However, he managed to instil some 
of his confidence into the unhappy husband, assuring 
him that the case presented no untoward symptoms, and 
was likely to end happily in a few hours. 

A few hours! 

As they passed the wicket gate Dr. Ransome paused. 

“Mr. Quinney,” he said gravely, “I advise you to 
go for a brisk walk. You can do nothing more.” 

“But if my wife should want me?” 

“She is not likely to want you. It might make it 
easier for her, if she knew you were out of the way.” 

“I’ll sit in the dining-room,” said Quinney. 

He did so, casting longing eyes at the decanter of 
port, sorely tempted to drink and drink till he became 
drunk. He was learning much upon this terrible night. 
Ever afterwards, when he encountered drunkards, he 
forbore to condemn them, wondering what had first 
driven them to seek oblivion, and thankful that the 
temptation to do so had never mastered him. 

Presently the nurse joined him, and he was struck 
by the change in her pleasant, capable face. Upon be- 

*3 


Quinneys’ 

mg pressed, she admitted cautiously that there were 
slight complications. 

Worse followed! 

At midnight, Quinney was despatched for another 
doctor. And then what he had predicted, half in jest, 
came to pass. Mrs. Biddlecombe was seized with violent 
pains. Quinney had been right about the mackerel; and 
the nurse was called upon to give undivided attention to 
the elder woman. Quinney took refuge in the kitchen, 
where Maria was busy preparing hot poultices and pre- 
dicting two deaths in the house, if not three, before 
morning. Never in his short life, not even in the throes 
of nightmare, had Quinney imagined any concatenation 
of misery which could compare with the realities of this 
night. 

At three in the morning, once more alone in the din- 
ing-room, he went down on his knees. In a wild, un- 
reasoning fashion, dazed by what he had experienced, 
he proposed to bargain with Omnipotence. Solemnly, 
he swore that he would sell no more new oak as old, 
if his precious Susan was spared. He renounced ferv- 
ently all claim to Joseph Quinney, junior. If choice had 
to be made, let the child be taken and the mother left! 

He rose from his knees somewhat comforted, so true 
is it that sincere prayer, if it accomplishes nothing else, 
is of real benefit to those who pray. He remembered 
the faked specimen of Early Worcester, and his resolu- 
tion to sell it at the first opportunity. He rushed into 
the sitting-room, seized the cup and saucer, and smashed 
them. The violence of the action seemed to bind the 
bargain between himself and the Ruler of the Uni- 
verse. Standing erect this time, he swore that faked 
china as well as faked oak was to be eternally repudiated. 
84 


The Visitor Arrives 

Let him perish, instead of Susan, if he failed to keep his 
word! 

By an odd coincidence, he had hardly registered these 
vows when he realized that there was silence upstairs. 
Within a few minutes Maria poked her head into the 
room to report a marked improvement in Mrs. Biddle- 
combe. 

“And your mistress ?” 

Maria shook her head. 

“I know nothing about her, sir.” 

“Everything seems strangely quiet.” 

“Yes, sir; terribly so.” 

She dabbed at her eyes, inflamed already by much 
weeping, and withdrew. Quinney went to the foot of 
the stairs, listening. The suspense became excruciating, 
harder to endure than the anguished moaning of his 
wife. He never knew afterwards how long he remained 
there, but presently the door opened and the measured 
tread of both doctors was heard on the landing. They 
came slowly downstairs till they perceived Quinney. 
Dr. Ransome spoke, and his voice seemed to come from 
an immense distance: 

“It's all over! Your child is born.” 

“Thank God !” exclaimed Quinney. He added tremu- 
lously: “And my poor wife?” 

“She is very much exhausted. Presently you can go to 
her for a minute. It has been a complicated case, but 
we anticipate no further complications.” 

Quinney burst into tears. 

Both doctors consoled him, taking him by the arm, 
patting his shoulder, telling him that he was the father 
of a robust infant, that there was no cause whatever for 
unreasonable anxiety. Not till they were on the point 

85 


Quinneys’ 

of leaving the cottage did the distracted father remember 
the decanter of port. 

“Come in here, gentlemen, please.” 

They followed him into the dining-room, and three 
glasses were duly charged. 

“My son I” said Quinney, holding up his glass. 

Dr. Ransome stared at him, then he smiled. 

“Don’t you know. Didn’t we tell you?” 

“Tell me what?” 

“You are the father, my dear sir, of a ten-pound 
daughter !” 


86 


CHAPTER VII 


JOSEPH IN A 

I 

H E stole up to his wife’s room as soon as the doctors 
had gone. The pale silvery light of early dawn 
seemed to steal up with him, making the silence more 
impressive and mysterious. Upon a table on the land- 
ing the lamp burned low. He had been told to expect 
the weak wail of the newly-born. The nurse, indeed, 
as they walked together from her cottage, had spoken of 
it as the most wonderful sound in all the world when 
heard by a father for the first time. But he had not 
heard it. 

He turned out the lamp, and noticed that his hand 
was trembling. Exercising his will, which he knew to be 
strong, he endeavoured to stop this strange twitching. 
He could not do so. Suddenly, he became conscious 
of an immense weariness ; his limbs ached ; his head was 
throbbing; he felt like an overtired child. It even oc- 
curred to him that it would be not altogether unpleasant 
to cry himself to sleep. An odd fear of seeing Susan 
gripped him. What did she look like after the rigours 
of this awful night? Was she lying insensible? Would 
she know him ? Would he break down before her, when 
he beheld the cruel ravages of intense pain? For her 
sake he must pull himself together. 

Thereupon a struggle for the mastery took place 

87 


Quinneys’ 

between spirit and flesh. He was not able to analyze 
his emotions, but he divined somehow that this was his 
labour, that something was being born out of him, 
wrenched from his very vitals, a new self with a brighter 
intelligence, a more vigorous sympathy. The pains of 
the spirit were upon him. Presently an idea emerged; 
the conception which must take place in every human 
soul, the quickening of a transcendent conviction that 
pain is inevitable and inseparable from growth. It would 
be absurd to contend that his writhing thoughts could 
twist themselves into the form to which expression has 
been given here. He was very young, and, apart from 
a special knowledge of his business, extremely ignorant; 
but it was revealed to him at this moment, a babe and 
suckling in such matters, that something had happened 
to him, that he could never be the same again. Father- 
hood, and all it implied, had been paid for with tears 
and agony. 

The door of Susan’s room opened. 

He saw the nurse, who beckoned. Her face had be- 
come normal; she smiled gravely, as he passed her, and 
she closed the door softly, leaving husband and wife 
together. 

His first impression was that the room smelled very 
sweet, filled with the fragrance of the flowers in the 
garden. The windows remained wide open. The light 
was stronger than on the landing, but soft, for the 
sun had not yet risen. Everything was in order. The 
habit of swift observation enabled him to grasp all this 
in a flash, although, so far as he knew, his eyes were 
fixed upon the bed. Susan lay upon her side of it. 
Her face was milk-white, with purple lines beneath 
eyes which seemed unduly sunken. Her pretty hair, 
88 


Josephina 

done in two plaits, framed her face. To Quinney she 
looked exactly like a child who had been frightfully ill. 
It was impossible to think of her as a mother. Nor 
did he do so. He had forgotten the baby altogether, 
his mind was concentrated upon the Susan whom he 
loved, upon the Susan who appeared to have returned 
from a long journey into an unknown land, a new and 
strange Susan, for her lips never smiled at him, but 
in her tender eyes he recognized his wife, his own little 
woman, his most priceless possession, the soul of her 
shone steadily out of those eyes acclaiming his soul as 
he acclaimed hers. 

When he kissed her, she sighed. He slipped his hand 
beneath the bedclothes, and took her hand, murmuring 
her name again and again. She did not speak, and he 
did not wish her to speak. Her silence implied far more 
than speech. 

He felt the faint pressure of her hand, so small and 
weak within his grasp. Then he laid his head upon her 
bosom. He could just hear her heart, beating slowly 
and feebly. He lifted his head, putting his cheek against 
hers. She sighed again — deliciously! He tried to be- 
lieve that his strength, which seemed to have returned on 
a spring- tide of irresistible volume, could be infused 
into her. And it may have been so, for presently she 
spoke, the words fluttering from her pale lips. 

“You are not very disappointed ?** 

Disappointed ! 

He reassured her upon that point, so overmasteringly 
that she smiled, and the pressure of her hand became 
stronger. 

The nurse appeared, beckoning once more. Quinney 
followed her obediently into the adjoining room, where 

89 


Quinneys’ 

an object that looked like a wrinkled orange was af- 
firmed to be his daughter’s head! Obviously the nurse 
expected him to kiss this; and he did so without any 
uplifting exultation, without a single compensating 
thrill! It occurred to him vaguely that Susan and he 
had paid a thumping price for very little. He was 
shown a hand like the hand of an anaemic doll. Into 
the tiny palm he slipped, cautiously, his forefinger. To 
his amazement, the finger was gripped unmistakably. 

“Well, I’m damned!” he exclaimed. As the nurse 
raised her eyebrows in silent protest, he added quickly: 
“I’ve been swearing all night; one more little one don’t 
count !” 

The nurse glanced professionally at his haggard face 
and dishevelled hair. 

“You go to bed at once!” she commanded. 

He did so. 


II 

Susan’s recovery from her confinement was slow but 
unattended, as the doctor had predicted, by complica- 
tions. She was able, happily, to nurse her child, but 
for many months she remained in cotton wool at the 
Dream Cottage, recruiting her energies in the pleasant 
garden, and rarely straying beyond it. The question of 
her returning to the shop was settled drastically. 

“Who’ll take care of the kid? Wouldn’t leave her to 
a nursemaid, would you?” 

“N-n-no,” faltered Susan, feeling more wife than 
mother. She qualified the doubtful negative by mur- 
muring: “I did love helping you.” 

“Lord bless you! You’re helping me at home — a 
90 


Josephina 

woman’s right place. It’s the biggest help a woman 
can give to a man. You run things fine ! Yes, you do !” 
— for she had shaken her head. “And the kid has the 
very best nurse in all the world ! Shop, indeed ! I don’t 
want my wife demeaning herself in a shop !” 

He snorted with indignation, and Susan, with a sup- 
pressed sigh, let the subject drop for ever. 

Meanwhile he had told her of his solemn oath, which 
made a profound impression upon a sensitive mind and 
conscience. The immediate consequence, however, of 
a determination to renounce false gods was absolutely 
unforeseen. Two days after the birth of the baby, when 
the shattered little mother was still lying between life 
and death, Quinney distracted his mind by putting on 
one side every doubtful piece of vertu in his possession, 
re-pricing faithfully, even at a loss to himself, each par- 
ticular fake. He was engrossed in this very uncongenial 
task — for the old Adam was merely dazed and not dead 
within him — when the Marquess of Mel entered the 
shop. He had heard from Dr. Ransome a racy and 
humorous account of Quinney under stress, and had 
been much moved thereby. As a grand seigneur of 
the old school he deemed it a duty to call upon so re- 
markable a tenant, and, if necessary, hearten him up 
by the purchase of a bit of furniture or china. Hereto- 
fore, the Quinneys, father and son, had dealt with the 
magnate’s agent. Lord Mel, so far as he knew, had 
never exchanged a single word with the son of a man 
whom he accounted an old rascal. 

Quinney received him without betraying any awe of 
his rank, listening respectfully to his landlord’s felicita- 
tions. He loved a lord, as all true Britons do and must, 
but he had not yet recovered from a tremendous shock, 

91 


Quinneys’ 

and his thoughts were entirely centred upon Susan. 
When Lord Mel paused, Quinney replied : 

“She’s not out of the wood yet, my lord.” 

“I know how you feel — I have been through it. And 
now show me over your premises. The Bishop tells me 
that you have some fine porcelain.” 

“I’ve a lot of poor stuff, too!” grumbled Quinney. 

Lord Mel smiled. He enjoyed what he called “brows- 
ing” in curiosity shops, but he had never heard so can- 
did an admission before. He was still more surprised 
at what followed. His own taste strayed pleasantly in 
the eighteenth century, and he was not aware, of course, 
that this was Quinney’s beloved period. Nor did he 
know that the saloon at Mel Court was nearly as familiar 
to Quinney as to himself. At first his attention was 
challenged by the faked oak. The panels were really 
beautiful, and, inasmuch as they had deceived Quinney 
himself, it is not very remarkable that they imposed 
themselves upon an amateur. 

“Have you much of this oak?” he asked. 

“Any amount of it!” 

“Enough to panel a room?” 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“What will you take for the lot? It happens that 
I can use it at Mel Court. I am building a new bil- 
liard room, and my lady is rather tired of mahogany.” 

Quinney’s keen eyes sparkled. Lord Mel was too big 
a swell to bargain, and he was obviously not a “think-it- 
over fellow.” He would pay, cheerfully, a big price for 
these panels and, as likely as not, ask no questions about 
them. Then he thought of Susan, white and helpless in 
the big bed. With a tremendous effort, and speaking 
abruptly, as man to man, he said: 

92 


Josephina 

“It’s all faked stuff.” 

“What ! Impossible !” 

“I can sell the lot, my lord, at a price that will sur- 
prise you.” He named the price, which included a mod- 
est profit to himself, wondering what Tamlin would 
say when he heard the story. Tamlin, of course, owned 
an undivided half-interest in the panels. Lord Mel was 
astounded. He bought the panels, and stared at Quin- 
ney’s whimsical face. 

“The price does surprise me,” he admitted. 

“Perfectly wonderful !” said Quinney. “The real stuff 
— if you could have found such a quantity — would have 
run into a couple of thousand.” 

“But, pardon me, aren’t you doing business upon 
rather a novel plan?” 

“That’s as may be, my lord. I propose to keep the 
very best fakes and to label ’em as such. I have the 
genuine stuff, too. Take Oriental china. Look at those 
jars !” 

He was fairly started, aglow with excitement and en- 
thusiasm, oblivious of himself and his visitor, pouring 
out a flow of intimate information, unconsciously dis- 
playing himself rather than his wares, forcing his queer 
personality upon a man of the world, a connoisseur of 
men as well as porcelain. Inevitably, his genius — long 
afterwards recognized as such — for beauty challenged 
the attention of his listener — himself a lover of beauty. 
They met as equals upon the common ground of similar 
tastes. Quinney let himself go. In his perfervid ex- 
citement he gestured as he did before Susan; the floor 
was strewn with aitches; grammar halted feebly behind 
his impassioned sentences. There were things, lots o’ 
things, that were just right — perfection; and one of 

93 


Quinneys’ 

’em — one bloomin’ bit o’ real stuff, one tiny cup, potted 
by a master, painted by an artist, gilded by an honest 
man who used the purest gold, twenty-two carat, by 
Gum! — was worth all the beastly rubbish in the world. 
He ended upon the familiar note. 

“I hate rubbish! Rubbish is wicked, rubbish is cruel, 
rubbish poisons the world. I was brought up amongst 
it, and that’s why I loathe it and fear it.” 

When he finished Lord Mel held out his hand. 

“Mr. Quinney,” he said simply, “I am happy to make 
your acquaintance; you are building even better than 
you know.” 

It is quite impossible to exaggerate the results that 
flowed directly and indirectly from this memorable inter- 
view. In the first place, Quinney secured a patron and 
friend who was all-powerful in a large county. Lord 
Mel kept open house; he entertained the greatest men 
in the kingdom. He sent his guests to the man whom 
he affirmed positively to be the only honest dealer that 
he knew ; he brought experts, to whom Quinney listened 
feverishly, sucking their special knowledge from them, 
as a greedy child sucks an orange. He allowed our hero 
access to his own collections, permitted him to make an 
inventory of them, and later discarded upon his advice 
certain questionable specimens. In a word, this oddly- 
assorted couple became friends, comrades, in their inde- 
fatigable quest for beautiful objects. It was Lord Mel 
who despatched Quinney to Ireland — one of his richest 
hunting grounds. In Ireland Quinney fell passionately 
in love with old cut-glass, at a time when the commercial 
demand for it was almost negligible. In fine, Lord Mel 
discovered Quinney and trained him to discover him- 
self. 


94 


Josephina 


in 

Picture to yourself Tamlin’s amazement and disgust 
when he paid his next visit to the ancient town some 
three weeks after the sale of the panels. And it must 
be admitted that he had reason for complaint, and that 
his first comment upon Quinney’s astounding proceed- 
ings was justified. 

“You don’t seem to have thought of me!” 

“I didn’t,” said Quinney, with admirable simplicity. 

“I told you about that fellow in Brittany; I sent you 
to him; I provided half the cash, and I was counting 
upon big profits. You’ve let me down badly.” 

“Looks like it, to be sure !” 

“Damned outrage, I call it!” 

“So it is; but I was desperate. Susan was dying. 
I never thought of you at all. Now, look here ! Don’t 
overheat yourself! You was counting upon a fifty per 
cent, profit.” 

“Perhaps more.” 

“You do like to get your forefeet into the trough. 
Any Jew blood in your family? Keep cool! At first 
we got our big profit, and how much stuff did we sell? 
Very little. Now I’ve orders coming in faster than I 
can fill ’em, and your profit, small and quick, will knock 
endways the big and slow. See?” 

Eventually he made Tamlin see, and the London 
dealer had to admit that Lord Mel, played by Quinney 
as a trump card, introduced a new element into the 
game. The orders were coming in. 

“It’s silly to be dishonest,” said Quinney, “because 
sooner or later a feller is found out.” 


95 


Quinneys’ 

“Honest fakes,” murmured Tamlin. The contradic- 
tion in terms upset him. 

“That’s it. And my fakes are goin’ to be advertised 
as the best in the world — really fine stuff at a price 
which’ll defy competition.” 

“You’re an extraordinary man, Joe. There is some- 
thing in it. Honest fakes!” 

“Rub this in as vaseline, old man. If we can sell 
honest fakes cheap, we can sell the real Simon pure 
stuff at the top notch. Rich people don’t haggle over a 
few extra pounds if they know that they’re not being 
imposed upon. I’m going to offer to take back any bit 
I sell as genuine which may be pronounced doubtful 
by the experts.” 

Tamlin shook his head mournfully, having no exalted 
faith in experts. Also, he was beginning to realize 
that Quinneys’ as a sort of dumping-ground for his sur- 
plus inferior wares was now under a high protective 
tariff. He growled out: 

“If you think you know your own business ” 

“Cocksure of it, old man!” 

“I can only hope that Pride won’t have a fall.” 

“You come with me and drink my daughter’s health. 
Never saw such a kid in all my life — and not a month 
old!” 

Tamlin grinned, perceiving an opportunity of “land- 
ing” heavily. 

“Daughter? Rather muddled things, haven’t you? 
Thought you’d arranged with your missis that it was 
to be a boy?” 

“Did you? Well, being a better husband than you 
are, I let her ’ave her own way in that.” 

96 


Josephina 


IV 

The daughter was duly christened Josephina Biddle- 
combe, and, for the purposes of this narrative, we may 
skip a number of pet names, beginning with Baby and 
ending with Josie-posie. Ultimately she was called 
Posie and nothing else — a rechristening that took place 
in the distinguished presence of the Bishop of Manches- 
ter. The child was nearly three years old when that 
courtly prelate happened to drift into the shop. Susan 
and the child had entered a few minutes before. 

“And what is your name, my dear? ,, he asked. 

“ Josie-posie, ” she replied demurely. Even at that early 
age Quinney's daughter was absolutely devoid of fear 
or shyness. She added confidingly: “And I wear a 
macheese.” 

“What does she wear?” asked the Bishop of Susan. 

Susan blushed. 

“She means a — chemise, my lord.” 

The Bishop laughed heartily, inferring that hitherto 
she had worn some other garment. Then he said in his 
pleasant voice: “Josie-posie is too big a name for so 
tiny a maid. I like the second half of it better than 
the first.” 

“So do I,” said Susan. 

“Yes, yes; Posy is a sweet, old-fashioned name, and 
it describes the child admirably.” 

When he had taken leave of them, Quinney said 
with conviction: 

“He's right. Posy she is, the little dear! And his 
lordship didn't fail to notice, I’ll be bound, that she 
smells as sweet as she looks.” 


97 


Quinneys’ 

After this incident the child was always called Posy. 

It is not easy to describe the sprite, because she pre- 
sented a baffling combination of father and mother. 
Her native grace, her pretty colouring and delicate fea- 
tures, were a sweet inheritance from Susan; her quick- 
ness of wit, her powers of observation, her unmistakable 
sense of beauty — for she shrank tremblingly from what 
was mean or ugly — came from Quinney. Essentially 
she was a child of love, adored by both her parents, 
and, up to a certain point, spoiled by them. Mrs. Bid- 
dlecombe was fondly of the opinion that the child had 
taken from her parents what was best in each, but- 
tressing the assertion by calling attention to the dash 
of red in the golden locks, and the peculiar alertness of 
the mite's glance flashing hither and thither, searching 
for the things which delighted her, and acclaiming them 
when found with joyous chirruping and gestures. 

“Reg’lar butterfly !” said Quinney. “Dotty about 
flowers! Picks out the best, by Gum!” 

The first three years passed without incident. The 
business prospered. Quinney engaged a capable assist- 
ant, and began his travels. His restlessness affected 
Susan, but she accepted it resignedly. He was different 
from other men and not to be judged by ordinary stand- 
ards. Argument was wasted upon him. She expostu- 
lated vainly when he began to change the furniture. 
The knowledge that each bit was more valuable and 
beautiful than its predecessor did not appeal to her 
at all. She beguiled him into talking about his business, 
feigning interest in its growth, but became increasingly 
conscious that the details bored her. The Dream Cot- 
tage, as she had pictured it, faded from memory. It 
had become a sort of small pantechnicon, a storehouse 
98 


Josephina 

of precious objects which came and went, an annexe to 
the shop, to be kept swept and garnished for the enter- 
tainment and instruction of collectors. 

The garden, however, was her peculiar domain, dif- 
fusing its own satisfactions and graces. The kitchen 
and nursery were hers also. She was an excellent house- 
wife, and made Posy’s frocks, and some of her own, 
despite the protests of Quinney, who babbled foolishly 
of satins and brocades. 

Undaunted by her awful experience, she hoped for 
another child. Upon this point Mrs. Biddlecombe had 
something to say. 

“I was an only child, you was an only child, your 
grandfather was an only child. It’s in the family. 
After what you went through ” 

“Jo e would like a son, mother.” 

“Has he hinted that to you?” 

“No.” 

“You take it from me that he doesn’t.” 

To Susan’s astonishment, Joe confirmed what had 
seemed a ridiculous assumption. After Josephina was 
weaned, Susan whispered to him one night: 

“I do miss my baby.” 

“Enjoyed bein’ woke up — hey?” 

“Yes.” 

“Like another, perhaps?” She detected the scorn 
in his voice. 

“If — if you wanted it, Joe. A little son this time.” 

He caught hold of her, speaking vehemently, crushing 
her to him, as if to remind her how nearly she had 
slipped from his keeping. 

“Now look here, Susie, I ain’t going to have an- 
other" 


99 


Quinneys’ 

She laughed faintly, as she replied : 

“It isn’t you who will have it. Mother says she 
wishes that the men could take turn and turn about.” 

“Ho! Said that, did she? You tell her from me 
that I suffered quite enough with my first. Enough to 
last me all my life, and yours too !” 

Susan shook with laughter. 

“Oh, Joe, you are a darling!” 

“Silly name to call me! Red-headed and freckled! 
But no more nonsense about little sons. When my 
daughter marries, her husband can take my name. 
See?” 

“I see,” said Susan; “but I’m afraid baby’s husband 
may not.” 

At the end of three years, a small cloud arose in their 
clear sky. Mrs. Biddlecombe announced solemnly that 
she was seriously ill, and about to meet her Maker. 


TOO 


CHAPTER VIII 


LIGHT OUT OF THE DARKNESS 

I 

W HEN Mrs. Biddlecombe made this solemn declara- 
tion it never occurred to either Quinney or Susan 
to dispute the infallibility of such a statement. The 
worthy lady belonged to a type rapidly becoming extinct in 
this country, a type which has provoked the astonishment 
and humorous criticism of foreigners. She had never 
questioned what she devoutly held to be certain divinely- 
revealed truths. Persons who presumed to differ from 
her, or perhaps it would be fairer to say, from the in- 
discriminate mass of public opinion which she repre- 
sented, were accounted beyond the pale of Christian char- 
ity and toleration, tout comprendre cest tout pardonner 
being an arrow which glances harmlessly against preju- 
dice and predilection. There was no joint in her armour 
of righteousness through which it could penetrate. The 
type is still so common that comment upon it would be 
tedious. Amongst other cherished beliefs was a con- 
viction that illness came direct from God. Had Susan, 
as a child, been struck down with typhoid fever, Mrs. 
Biddlecombe would have accepted the blow with resigna- 
tion and tended the sufferer, under the direction of a 
medical attendant, with exemplary tenderness and forti- 
tude. She would not have overhauled the system of 
drainage. Accordingly, when the Hand of Providence 
— as she put it — was laid heavily upon her massive body, 

IOI 


Quinneys’ 

she accepted the infirmity with pious resignation, and 
informed Laburnum Row that it was the beginning of 
the end. Dr. Ransome diagnosed the case, accurately 
enough, as cardiac weakness arising from chronic dys- 
pepsia. His patient was of a full habit, and took no 
exercise beyond the common round of duties connected 
with her small house. A competent servant “did” for 
her, perhaps in more senses than one. Ransome, of 
course, reassured her again and again in regard to her 
symptoms. They were such as could not be ignored at 
her age — fifty-five — but with care and a less generous 
diet she might reasonably hope to live happily for many 
years. Mrs. Biddlecombe refused to believe this. She 
made her will, leaving everything she possessed to Su- 
san, selected her last resting-place in the Melchester 
cemetery, not too near the grave of her second hus- 
band, the contractor and builder, and announced calmly 
that she was “ready.” Quinney, of course, had a private 
word with Dr. Ransome, but that cautious diplomat had 
to admit that his patient might go suddenly. Quinney 
told Susan what had passed between them, using his 
own vernacular. 

“Old Pomposity is hedgin’ — see? Just like him! 
Comes to this, Susie. You was at death’s door, seem- 
in’ly, but, by Gum! you pulled through because you 
wouldn’t leave me!” 

Susan nodded, pressing his arm. 

“Works t’other way round with your mother. She’s 
made up her mind to die, and the doctor can’t argue 
her out of the notion. Her heart is weak, and if it 
begins flutterin’ it may stop for ever just because the 
pore old dear won’t will it to go on wigglin’. There 
y’are !” 


102 


Light Out of the Darkness 

Susan was much upset. She loved her mother, al- 
though the two women had little in common, and the 
feminine instinct of ministration, root-pruned by her 
husband, began to sprout vigorously. She paid long 
daily visits to Laburnum Row, and Quinney soon noticed 
a falling off in the quality of his food. Twice they 
were summoned in the middle of the night to say good- 
bye to a woman who believed herself to be dying. 

“A bit thick !” said Quinney. 

“Joe!” 

“But, isn’t it? Let’s face the facts. You spend 
a lot o’ time away from home, away from Posy. Losin’ 
your nice fresh colour, you are! And I’m losin’ my 
appetite for the good meals I used to have.” 

“But mother wants me. And any moment ” 

“So she thinks. Quite likely to make old bones yet. 
Now, look here, I’ve a plan — the only plan. I simply 
won’t have you trapesin’ round to Laburnum Row at all 
hours o’ the day and night. Tell your mother to pack 
up and come to us.” 

Alas! Poor Susan! 

She was hoist with her own petard. Protest died on 
her lips. She submitted, not daring to confess that a 
dying mother could be regarded by a dutiful daughter 
as an unwelcome visitor. 

Mrs. Biddlecombe, however, refused, at first, to budge. 
“Let me die here, Joseph.” Quinney used the clinching 
argument. 

“You are not going to die, Mrs. B., but, if you did, 
just think of the sad job we’d have gettin’ you down 
them narrow stairs. And we never could receive all 
your friends in such a small parlour.” 


103 


Quinneys’ 

“That’s true,” sighed Mrs. Biddlecombe. “There’s 
a lot in what you say, Joseph.” 

“There is, old dear! I’m uneducated, and I know it, 
but my talk is full o’ meat and gravy. It’s nourish- 
ing!” 

Accordingly, Mrs. Biddlecombe came to the Dream 
Cottage, and was installed comfortably in the guest 
chamber. As time passed, the good lady grew to like her 
room so well that she refused to leave it. She became, 
in short, bedridden, and increasingly dependent upon 
Susan, who never failed her. Quinney began to spend 
his evenings away from home. He joined a club which 
met bi-weekly in a snug room at the Mitre. Susan en- 
couraged him to join his friends, because she was terri- 
fied lest he should be bored at home. Also, his wan- 
derings in search of furniture and china became more 
extended, and when he returned triumphant, exulting 
in wonderful bargains, she found it increasingly difficult 
to share his enthusiasm, and to rejoice with him over a 
prosperity which seemed to be driving them farther 
apart 

She told herself, on her knees, that she was a wicked, 
ungrateful woman. Indeed, she was amazed at her 
own emotions, unable to analyze them, conscious only 
that she was torn in two by circumstance and conse- 
quence. Her Joe loved her faithfully; he grudged her 
nothing; he worked hard for her and his child; he had 
none of the vices common to the husbands of many 
women she knew; he was almost always in high health 
and spirits. And Posy? What a darling! No cause for 
anxiety there. A sweet sprite, budding rapidly into a 
pretty, intelligent girl. And she herself? Healthy, the 
104 


Light Out of the Darkness 

mistress of a charming little house filled with beautiful 
things, but not happy. 

Why — why — why ? 

Civil war raged beneath her placid bosom. War to 
the knife between conjugal and maternal instincts. Her 
duty to child and mother stood between what she desired 
more passionately than anything .else — a renewal of 
intimate intercourse with a husband who was drifting 
out of her life, leaving her stranded upon barren rocks. 
She found herself wondering whether his feeling for her 
was waxing lukewarm. She would cheerfully have un- 
dergone the cruellest pangs to experience once more the 
ineffable bliss of kissing tears from his eyes, of hearing 
his voice break when he whispered her name, of know- 
ing that he suffered abominably because she suffered. 

She began to pray for something to break the deadly 
monotony of her life. 

And her prayers were answered. 

II 

Quinney was returning one night from the club soberly 
conscious that he had slightly exceeded his usual allow- 
ance of port wine. He was in that mellow frame of 
mind, far removed from intoxication, which dwells com- 
placently upon the present without any qualms as to the 
future. For instance, despite the extra glass or two, 
he knew that he would awake the next morning with a 
clear brain and a body fit to cope with any imposed 
task. In fine, he was sober enough to congratulate him- 
self upon the self-control which had refused further in- 
dulgence, and at the same time righteously glad that he 
had not drunk less. The colour of the good wine en- 

105 


Quinneys’ 

carmined his thoughts, the bottled sunshine irradiated his 
soul. 

He passed slowly through the Cathedral Close, pausing 
to admire the spire soaring into a starlit sky, black 
against violet. He had left the Mitre at half-past eleven, 
but few lights twinkled from the windows of the houses 
encircling the Close. The good canons retired early and 
rose rather late, thereby, perhaps, securing health with- 
out being encumbered with the burden of wisdom. With 
rare exception all Melchester slumbered. 

Quinney, out of native obstinacy, felt astoundingly 
awake. He began to compute the hours wasted in sleep. 
He had quaint theories on this subject, which he aired 
at the club. It has been said that party politics left him 
cold, although he grew warm and excited over his own 
ideas. The Tories assured him that England was going 
behind, but their reasons, taken from pamphlets and 
newspapers, were unconvincing, if you happened to read 
— as Quinney did — the Radical counter blasts. Ever 
since his memorable trip to France Quinney posed as the 
travelled man. The French, he contended, were prosper- 
ous because they saved money and time. They rose 
earlier, worked harder for more hours out of the twenty- 
four. Also, he had been much impressed by the French 
Sunday as a day of recreation as well as rest. The 
French did not need a half-holiday on Saturday, be- 
cause they made a whole holiday of Sunday. Susan 
was appalled at this view, but Quinney used the argu- 
ment with telling effect at the club. Pinker, the Radical 
grocer, was immensely taken with it. If cricket and 
football could be played on Sunday the British workman 
would earn another half-day's pay. Multiply that by 
millions, and there you are! 

106 


Light Out of the Darkness/ 

He strolled on to the Mel, and paused again, staring 
at that placid stream rolling so leisurely to the sea. 
He was rolling as leisurely to — what? The question 
caught at him, insistently demanding an answer. He 
realized, almost with a shock, that nearly seven years 
had passed since he married Susan. During that seven 
years he had doubled his capital. He was worth twenty 
thousand pounds at least, probably more, and his best 
years were yet to come. Mrs. Biddlecombe, it is true, 
was not so sanguine. According to her, prosperity in the 
present indicated adversity in the near future. 

“Joseph’s luck will turn,” she would say to Susan in 
her husband’s presence. Finally, Quinney retorted with 
some heat: 

“Now, Granny, don’t you go on barkin’ your old 
knuckles over that. I ain’t superstitious, but long ago 
I had ’arf-a-crown’s worth o’ fortune-tellin’ from the 
Queen o’ the Gypsies herself. I’m to live to be seventy- 
six, and to bend the knee to my Sovereign.” 

“What did the foolish woman mean by that?” 

“A queen, I tell you. She meant knighthood. Sir 
Joseph and Lady Quinney! What ho!” 

“Sir Humpty and Lady Dumpty more like !” 

Perhaps the tart answer had spurred him to greater 
endeavour. He was extremely sensitive under a skin 
toughened by paternal thwackings, and well aware that 
his mother-in-law was inclined to sniff whenever his 
name was mentioned. The poor old dear was a bit jeal- 
ous ! She had fallen in the social scale; he was rising, 
soaring into the blue, like the great spire of Melchester 
Cathedral. 

During the past seven years he had hugged close his 
intention of leaving Melchester for the wider sphere of 

107 


Quinneys’ 

London. The fact that Tamlin, Susan, and Mrs. Biddle- 
combe were obstinately opposed to such a leap into the 
unknown merely fortified his resolution. Tamlin, of 
course, nosed a rival, for some of his customers knew 
Quinney. Susan hinted that Posy would lose her bloom 
in London streets. Mrs. Biddlecombe pointed out, with 
businesslike acumen, that he and his father had built 
up a big and increasing country connection which would 
be greedily snapped up by some Melchester dealer. And, 
lastly, the mighty Marquess of Mel had uttered a word 
of warning: 

“It would mean a big fight. You are not in the ring, 
my dear fellow.” 

Whenever his kind patron addressed him as a dear 
fellow Quinney’s blood warmed within him. And his 
keen eyes sparkled at the prospect of a fight. He liked 
fights. As a boy he had fought to a finish other boys 
bigger than himself; and the victory had not invariably 
been with them. He remembered his victories, as he 
answered Lord Mel: 

“I should get into the ring, my lord.” 

“Urn! Would you! And” — his landlord laughed 
pleasantly — “I should lose a good tenant.” 

“London’s the best market for knowledge,” said Quin- 
ney. 

“Quite, quite! Can you attempt to compete with the 
experts ?” 

The question rankled, biting deep into his soul, incit- 
ing him to further study of the things he loved. But 
such study grew more and more difficult. He had be- 
come the expert of Melchester. On and about his own 
“pitch” it was impossible to find a man with more tech- 
nical knowledge than his own. In London, he would 
108 


Light Out of the Darkness 

be rubbing shoulders with world-famous collectors and 
connoisseurs. They would “down” him at first, rub his 
nose in the dust of the big auction rooms, but in the 
end he would learn what they had learned, and triumph 
where they had triumphed. 

Ill 

These thoughts were trickling through his mind as 
he gazed at the placid Mel trickling also to troublous 
seas, where its clear waters would be merged and lost. 
Quinney squirmed at the remote possibility of being 
merged and lost. He muttered uneasily: “It fair furs 
my tongue to think o' that.” The extra glass of wine 
had not excited him to the consideration of perilous 
enterprises. An extra pint might have done so. No; 
the old port which had ripened in the Melchester cel- 
lars exercised a benignant and restful influence. Its 
spirit, released at last, seemed to hover about the an- 
cient town, loath to leave it! We may hazard the con- 
jecture that the wine in the cellars of our universities 
may be potent to lull the ambitions of restless scholars, 
and to keep them willing prisoners in drowsy quad- 
rangles. 

Quinney lighted his pipe. 

He felt ripe for an important decision. For some 
months the necessity of enlarging his present premises 
had bulked large in his thoughts. A successful country 
dealer must carry an immense amount of stock, because 
he dare not specialize. His hatred for rubbish had 
become an obsession. More, his love of the finest speci- 
mens of furniture and porcelain interfered with the 
sale of them. He placed a price on these which event- 

109 


Quinneys’ 

ually he got, but often he was constrained to wait so 
long for the right customer that his profit was seriously 
diminished. He sold quickly immense lines of moder- 
ately-priced “stuff” — chairs, tables, chests of drawers, 
bureaux, bookcases, bedsteads, and mantelpieces. The 
“gems,” as he called them, were taken to the Dream 
Cottage, and only shown to the worthy few. 

To enlarge his premises was no ha’penny affair. Lord 
Mel, it is true, had offered to do so, but only on the 
condition that his tenant should sign a long lease; and 
a long lease meant remaining in Melchester. Ten, 
twenty years hence, he would be too old to begin again 
in London. 

He smoked his pipe much too quickly. 

To be candid, he was struggling desperately with the 
twin brethren who, whether good or bad, accompany 
each of us from the cradle to the grave. He was at 
grips with heredity and environment. Afterwards he 
admitted to himself and to Susan that two would have 
prevailed over one. He made up his mind to write to 
Lord Mel’s agent on the morrow, and he consoled him- 
self with the sound reflection that he was grasping sub- 
stance, not shadow. London might ruin him — he knew 
that, being no fool — and yet he was in the mood to 
shed tears upon the grave of ambition. Never, never, 
would he bend the knee before his Sovereign if he re- 
mained in Melchester! 

He sighed profoundly as he slipped his pipe into his 
pocket. By this time he was lucidly himself. The de- 
cision to enlarge his premises, and all that meant, would 
not be weakened, but strengthened, by a night’s sleep. 
Sleep! He smiled derisively. Sleep! Everybody in 
Melchester was asleep. He beheld himself and Susan 
no 


Light Out of the Darkness 

growing fat in this sleepy town. Susan was already 
plumper. She would develop into just such a fleshly 
tabernacle as her mother. 

He exclaimed loudly and virulently: 

“Damn 1” 

This was his acknowledgment of defeat. His “Vse 
victis.” He writhed impotently in the toils of circum- 
stance, although the struggle was over. The night 
seemed to have turned darker, the stars paled in the 
violet sky, as he walked slowly towards the Dream Cot- 
tage, wherein his wonderful dream would never come 
true. One would like to record that thoughts of his 
pretty, loving wife, and thoughts of his Posy — admit- 
tedly the gem of gems — stirred within him, pouring 
spikenard upon his lacerated sensibilities. It was not 
so. They stood for poppy, and mandragora, or, as he 
might have put it, old port and brown sherry in cut- 
glass decanters. And every fibre of his small, sturdy 
body clamoured for a fight in the London ring, a fight 
to a finish with the experts of his trade. 

At that dark moment he beheld light. 

IV 

The light came from Dream Cottage — a faint lumi- 
nous glow, so strange, so mysterious, that he stood still, 
straining his eyes to determine the meaning of it till that 
meaning flared full upon him. 

One of the chimneys was ablaze! 

Instantly his dormant energies awoke to liveliest ac- 
tivity. He raced back to a comer of the Close, where 
he had passed a policeman. The man had wandered 
farther on his beat. He overtook him, gasping. 

ill 


Quinneys’ 

“My house is afire!” 

The policeman recognized Quinney, and nodded owl- 
ishly. 

“Your house afire ?” he repeated. 

“You bolt for the engine — see?” 

He twirled round the massive figure, and pushed it 
vigorously. The guardian of the night broke into a 
slow trot. Quinney shouted: 

“Get a move on !” and sped back to the cottage. The 
light was no longer faintly luminous. Flames — hungry 
tongues of destruction — were licking the darkness. 


CHAPTER IX 


SALVAGE 

I 

O UINNEY found Susan asleep. In the small dress- 
ing-room next to their bedroom, Posy also slum- 
bered sweetly, although acrid smoke was filling the 
house. When Susan understood that she was not the 
victim of some hideous nightmare, Quinney imposed his 
commands. 

“You’ve time to slip on warm clothes. Bolt on to 
the lawn with Posy. Don’t try to save any of your 
rags. I’ll wake Maria — and then I’ve a lot to do. The 
best stuff downstairs is not insured. The engine will 
be here in two jiffs. You scoot out o’ this ! Hear me?” 

She nodded breathlessly, swept off her feet by his 
excitement. He vanished, before she could answer him 
or remind him of a bedridden mother-in-law. 

Maria also was asleep. Quinney hauled her out of 
bed, and pointed to the attic window. 

“Look at that,” he said grimly, “and scoot!” 

Maria scooted. 

Quinney leapt downstairs, cursing himself for a fool 
inasmuch as he had neglected to increase his insurance. 
The “gems” had slowly accumulated month after month. 
He breathed more easily when he reached the ground 
floor, but he was well aware that the old house would 

113 


Quinneys’ 

burn like tinder. The roof of thatch had begun to 
blaze; he could hear the crackle of the flames overhead. 

With profound regret it must be set down that he 
had quite forgotten Mrs. Biddlecombe. 

He worked methodically, beginning with the unin- 
sured porcelain, the Worcester, Chelsea, and Bow, 
which he carried tenderly into the garden. He had re- 
moved the most valuable specimens before the engine 
arrived. Maria, stout creature, half-dressed, bare- 
legged and bare-footed, joined him. Together they 
hauled out the Chippendale chairs and china cupboard. 

“Seen your missus ?” asked Quinney, when she first 
appeared. 

“On the lawn/’ replied Maria. 

Presently they heard the welcome rattle of the en- 
gine, and the Chief strode in, followed by two firemen. 

“Women all out?” he asked. 

“You bet!” replied Quinney. At that moment he re- 
membered Mrs. Biddlecombe. “My God !” he exclaimed, 
gripping the Chief. “There’s Mrs. Biddlecombe ! Bed- 
ridden, by Gum!” 

Maria burst into the riotous laughter of a Bacchante. 

“The old lady,” she sputtered, “was the first to scoot. 
She just ran out like I did.” 

“Ran?” repeated Quinney. 

“Like a rabbit!” said Maria, more calmly. 

“We’ve about five more minutes,” remarked the Chief. 

During that brief period wonders were accomplished ; 
but at the very last Quinney narrowly escaped death in 
his determination to save a print in colour which he 
had overlooked. A fireman grabbed him and held him 
as the roof fell. 


Salvage 


ii 

Kindly neighbours sheltered the women for that night, 
while Quinney mounted guard over his furniture and 
porcelain. He never left his precious things till they 
were safely stored in a warehouse. When his fellow 
townsmen condoled with him he laughed in their sol- 
emn faces. The sense of freedom which had so ex- 
panded his spirit upon the never-to-be-forgotten occa- 
sion of his sire’s funeral once more possessed him. The 
fire had burnt to cinders the resolution to remain in 
Melchester. He found himself wishing that the shop 
had burned too. What a glorious clearance that would 
have been, to be sure! 

Nevertheless, the sight of Susan’s face dampened his 
rejoicings. Obviously, she had swooped upon the truth. 
Mrs. Biddlecombe had been forgotten, left to frizzle, 
while a madman, at the risk of his life, was rescuing 
sticks and stones! 

“You never thought of mother,” said Susan. The 
small woman looked rather pale, and Quinney marked 
for the first time the wrinkle between her eyes. Mrs. 
Biddlecombe had the same vertical line, deeply cut. 
Also there was an inflection in Susan’s voice which he 
recognized regretfully as an inheritance from the old 
lady. He was tempted to lie boldly, to affirm with loud 
authority that he had left the care of the invalid mother 
to a devoted daughter. Fortunately, he remembered the 
Bacchanalian laughter of Maria. The baggage had 
peached. He replied simply: 

“I didn’t.” 

Susan compressed her pretty lips, and the likeness to 
her mother became startlingly strong. 

115 


Quinneys’ 

Quinney tried a disarming smile as he murmured : 

“She legged ic out on to the lawn. Maria says she 
ran like a bloomin’ rabbit.” 

“If Maria said that I shall have to speak to her seri- 
ously.” 

“She didn’t say ‘blooming.’ I’m sorry, Susie. It’s 
awful, I know, but you needn’t glare at me as if I’d left 
the old lady to burn on purpose. And out of evil 
comes good — hey? We know now that she’s as spry 
as ever. Almost looks as if firin’ had cured her.” 

“If you mean to make a joke of it ” 

He saw that she was deeply offended, and foolishly 
attempted to kiss her. Susan repulsed him. 

“What! Refuse to kiss your own hubby!” 

“Mother might be lying dead; and you thinking only 
of sticks and stones.” 

“Come off it !” said Quinney irritably. 

Susan turned her back on him, and he returned to 
the shop. It was their first serious trouble. 

Ill 

When they met again two hours afterwards the 
wrinkle had vanished ; and no allusion was made to this 
unhappy incident, either then or later. Susan was busy 
moving into temporary lodgings and buying necessary 
articles of clothing for herself and her mother. Quin- 
ney was thinking of London, and fairly spoiling for the 
fight ahead. It would begin when he tackled Susan 
and Mrs. Biddlecombe, and he knew that this first en- 
counter would be no bloodless victory. Posy would be 
used as a weapon, an Excalibur in the hands of a de- 
voted mother. 

116 


Salvage 

After much pondering, he did an unwise thing — what 
might have been expected from a man engrossed in his 
own business, and fully sensible that he understood that 
business better than anyone else. He had always de- 
spised futile argument. Mrs. Biddlecombe and Susan 
would argue for hours, repeating themselves like silly 
parrots, and evading, like most women, the real issues. 
He told himself that he would be quite unable to listen 
patiently to their prattle about country air and old 
friends, and rolling stones denuded of nice comfortable 
moss. Why not make his arrangements without con- 
sulting them? Whatever they might say, he intended 
to move from Melchester. He had nailed this flag to 
the mast when the roof of Dream Cottage fell in. It 
streamed over his future, a Blue Peter. 

Accordingly, he slipped away to London some two 
days later, leaving two women and an intelligent child 
in blissful ignorance of what was waving above them. 
He told Susan that an interview with the fire insurance 
people was imperative. She was quite ready to believe 
that, and speeded him on his journey with smiles and 
kisses. 

“While you are away,” she said cheerfully, “I shall be 
looking out for another Dream Cottage.” 

“You won’t find it in Melchester,” he replied curtly. 

Upon arrival in London he set forth gallantly in 
search of a “pitch.” He wandered in and out of curi- 
osity shops big and small. Some of the dealers knew 
him slightly. Many of the older men used to deal with 
his father. They were well aware that the son refused 
on principle to sell to the trade. Tamlin had passed 
round that word long ago. Quinney inspected their 
wares, and chuckled to himself whenever he encount- 

* ii 7 


Quinneys’ 

ered a fake labelled as a genuine antique. The biggest 
men displayed stuff not above suspicion. Indeed, the 
chuckling became audible when he discovered a Minihy 
cabinet in a famous establishment in St. James’s Street. 

“Guarantee that?” he asked of the rather supercilious 
young gentleman in a frock coat who was doing the 
honours. 

“Certainly.” 

It was then that Quinney chuckled. The young gen- 
tleman, quite unaware that he was entertaining a pro- 
vincial dealer, said loftily: 

“It’s French. Came out of a French chateau in 
Touraine.” 

“Signed?” 

“I think not. It’s signed all over as a bit of the 
finest Renaissance craftsmanship.” 

Quinney bent down, still chuckling. 

“It is signed,” he said, with conviction. 

“Really? Where, may I ask?” 

Quinney indicated a small, much-battered piece of 
oak. 

“Remove that,” he observed quietly, “and you will 
find the signature under it.” 

“Whose signature?” 

“The signature of a great artist who lives near 
Treguier in Brittany.” 

“Lives? What do you mean?” 

Quinney met the young gentleman’s scornful eyes and 
held them. 

“I mean, my lad, that your master has here a very 
clever copy, signed where I say by the man who copied 
it, whom I know. I’ve not asked the price, but I’ll tell 
you this: if it’s genuine, it’s cheap at two thousand; 

118 


Salvage 

if it’s a copy I can buy a dozen just like it at sixteen 
pounds apiece. Good-morning.” 

After three days’ hard walking, Quinney summed up 
results as follows: There were three classes of dealers 
in London. The tip-toppers, with establishments in 
fashionable thoroughfares, who sold the best stuff at a 
fancy price; the men, whose name was Legion, who 
lived here, there, and everywhere, selling wares good, 
bad, and indifferent at a small profit; and the middle- 
men, who sold almost exclusively to the big dealers. 

“There is a place for me,” said Quinney, with abso- 
lute conviction. 

He said as much to Tamlin next day. They were 
lunching together in an old-fashioned eating-house just 
off Fleet Street, sitting bolt upright upon wooden 
benches, and inhaling an atmosphere which advertised 
insistently cheese, onions, chump chops, and tobacco. 
Tamlin was the host, and he had ordered steak-and- 
kidney pudding, a Welsh rarebit to follow, and a bottle 
of port. He attacked these viands with such gusto that 
Quinney said to himself : 

“Never did see a man with a more unhealthy appe- 
tite!” 

Warned into candid speech by this fine old English 
food and drink, Tamlin said thickly: 

“A place for you, my tulip? Hope it won’t be in the 
Bankruptcy Court!” — and he chuckled grossly. 

Tamlin’s place, be it mentioned, was at the wrong 
end of the Fulham Road, but he was talking of moving 
to Bond Street. Tamlin reckoned himself to be one of 
the big dealers, and he talked in a full, throaty voice: 

“You’re a fool to leave Melchester, Joe. I say it as a 
friend.” 

119 


Quinneys’ 

'There’s a place for me in London,” repeated Quin- 
ney. 

“Where?” 

“Well, somewhere between the Fulham Road and 
Long Acre.” 

“ ’Ow about rent ?” 

“ Tisn’t the rent that worries me.” 

“Customers ?” 

“That’s right — customers. The business will have to 
be built up slowly, because I mean to specialize.” 

“In what?” 

“Old English porcelain, glass, and the finest furni- 
ture.” 

“You’ll starve.” 

“I mean to have one other department which may 
keep the pot boiling.” 

“Give it a name, Joe.” 

“Not yet.” 

“My first and last word to you is : Go back to Mel- 
chester and stay there.” 

Tamlin repeated this till Quinney sickened of his 
company. But he wanted the London man to predict 
disaster in his raucous tones. Success would taste the 
sweeter when it came. Moreover, Susan hated Tamlin, 
to such an extent, indeed, that she would flout his 
judgment. She had never forgiven his tale of a table 
with a broken leg. 

The men separated after smoking two cigars. Quin- 
ney walked to Soho Square, lit a better cigar than Tam- 
lin had given to him, and stared at an ancient house 
with a pediment over the door, and a signboard upon 
which were inscribed the exciting words, “To Let.” 

The mansion — for it was thus styled — had challenged 
120 


Salvage 

his attention and interest two days before. Tamlin 
would have ridiculed the idea of taking such a house, 
and turning it into a shop, but Tamlin was a trades- 
man, whereas Quinney believed himself to be an artist 
The house was of the right period — early Georgian 
from garret to cellar. 

Quinney went over it. 

It seemed to be the real right thing, so right that the 
little man, who had unconsciously absorbed some of 
the Melchester sermons, told himself that the guiding 
finger of Providence could be plainly discerned. There 
were dry cellars for storing valuable woods, a back- 
yard, and a big drawing-room, finely decorated in the 
Adam style, possibly by the hand of the Master, which 
occupied the first floor, and looked out upon the Square 
through three nobly-proportioned windows. Quinney 
decided instantly to make this splendid room his “sanc- 
tuary,” the treasure-house, wherein his “gems” would 
be fittingly enshrined. The ground floor would serve 
admirably as a shop. There were several bedrooms and 
excellent offices. 

In regard to the situation he came to this conclusion. 
The shops of the groundlings in the trade were in- 
variably small and ill-lighted; the establishments of the 
big dealers commanded a rent beyond his means. In 
any case, he would have to work up a clientele, and his 
customers, when they did find their way to this ancient 
square, would behold his beautiful wares under the 
happiest conditions of space and light. 

The rent, including rates and taxes, came to less than 
three hundred a year! A big rent, it is true, for a 
dealer with his capital, but much less than Tamlin paid 

121 


Quinneys’ 

for large and inconvenient premises in the Fulham 
Road. 

He signed a long lease within twenty-four hours, and 
returned, exulting in his strength, to Melchester and 
Susan. 

IV 

He did not tell her his wonderful news at once. A 
habit of secretiveness concerning his business was form- 
ing itself. It must be recorded on his behalf that Susan's 
indifference to “sticks and stones” exasperated him. 
By this time he had recognized her inability to appre- 
ciate fine “stuff.” As a saleswoman she had enchanted 
him, but even then, when she trotted about the shop 
smiling sweetly at his customers, he knew that she 
would never acquire a sense of values, that nice dis- 
crimination which detects unerringly the good from 
the very good, and acclaims the genius of the artist so 
subtly differentiated from the handicraft of the artisan. 

Susan, artless soul! had news of her own to impart. 
She had found a house just outside Melchester — a house 
with a bathroom, with hot and cold water laid on, a 
labour-saving house quite up to date — a bargain! 

The expression on his shrewd face, as he listened, 
warned Susan that he was keeping something from her. 
Human paste she understood better than he did. The 
animation died out of her voice as she faltered : 

“You look so queer, Joe.” 

Then he told her. 

To his surprise and satisfaction she acquiesced meekly. 
She was thinking that her prayers had been answered; 
but she could not bring herself to say so. Also she 
was cruelly hurt at his lack of confidence, afraid to 
122 


Salvage 

speak lest she should say too much, too proud to break 
down, pathetically silent. Quinney went on floundering 
amongst the broken ice. 

“I’m out for a big thing. I know that I can pull it 
off single-handed. Results will justify this move, Susie. 
It’s no use my hidin’ from you that I’m in for a fight. 
They’ll down me if they can, but in the end I shall 
come out on top, my girl. On top!” 

“On top of what, Joe?” 

He caught hold of her cold hands, gripping them 
tightly. He never noticed how faintly the pressure 
was returned. 

“Atop o’ the heap. A big dealer. It’s in me. Al- 
ways knew it. Not a dog’s chance here. Why, even 
Primmer of Bath had to go to London. I was in his 
Piccadilly place yesterday. And I can remember what 
his old shop at Bath used to be.” 

“What does Mr. Tamlin say?” 

“He’s nasty, is Tom Tamlin. I wanted him to be 
nasty. By Gum! I egged him on to call me a fool 
and an idiot.” 

“How I dislike that man!” 

“He fairly wallowed in prophecies. It will be the 
same here. I can hear Pinker goin’ it.” 

“Have you asked Lord Mel’s advice?” 

Quinney glanced at her sharply. 

“His lordship was very kind, but he’s my landlord, 
and I’m a good tenant. He may be offended. I must 
risk that.” 

Susan sighed as she said with finality : 

“It’s done?” 

“Thank the Lord — yes!” 

He suffered at the hands of Mrs. Biddlecombe, who, 

123 


Quinneys’ 

since the fire, had become livelier in mind and body. 
She believed that a miracle had been wrought upon 
her aged and infirm body, and regarded it as sanctified 
by a Divine touch. Laburnum Row repeated with awe 
the old lady’s solemn words: 

“When I woke to hear the roaring of the flames, I 
heard a Voice. It seemed to say: ‘Martha Biddle- 
combe, arise and walk/ ” 

A select party of friends was listening, but — weed 
your acquaintance how you may — nettles will spring 
up unexpectedly. A thin, acidulous spinster remarked 
drily : 

“We heard you — ran/’ 

“It is perfectly true,” replied Mrs. Biddlecombe, with 
austere dignity. “The hand of the Lord was upon me, 
and I ran.” 

According to her lights, she dealt faithfully with Jo- 
seph Quinney. As his guest, helpless beneath his roof, 
she had curbed too sharp a tongue. In her own lodg- 
ings, and mentally as well as physically “on her legs 
again,” she deemed it a duty to let that tongue wag 
freely. She received her son-in-law seated upon a sofa, 
the hard, old-fashioned sofa covered with black horse- 
hair. Above the mantelpiece was a framed print in 
crude colour, a portrait of the Great White Queen, in 
all her Imperial splendour handing a cheap edition of 
the Bible to a naked savage. Underneath this work of 
art was inscribed: “This is the secret of England’s 
greatness.” Upon a small marble-topped table near the 
sofa was another Bible. 

“Be seated, Joseph.” 

She had allowed him to kiss her cheek ; and he guessed 
as he saluted her that she was in happy ignorance of 
124 


Salvage 

his monstrous offence. At her request Susan was not 
present. 

“You are going to London?” 

“That’s right.” 

“It is not right, Joseph. It is very far indeed from 
being right. It would seem that right and wrong, as I 
interpret such plain words, have no definite meaning 
to you.” 

“Pop away!” 

“What?” 

“I said Top away.’ I meant, go on firing.” 

“I beg to be allowed to finish without flippant inter- 
ruption on your part. Personally, the affairs of this 
world do not concern me any longer. I am interested 
in them so far as they concern others, my own flesh and 
blood. Susan was born in Melchester, and so were 
you.” 

“We couldn’t help it. You might have chosen a 
livelier spot. Me and Susan wasn’t consulted. Chil- 
dren in a better managed world would be consulted, but 
there you are.” 

“Do you think, Joseph, in your arrogance, that you 
could manage this world better than it is managed?” 

“Lord bless you, yes !” 

“I trust that the Lord will bless me, young man, but 
He will assuredly not bless you, unless you mend your 
ways and your manners.” 

“Keep it up!” 

It enraged her to perceive that he was enjoying him- 
self. She wondered vaguely how the Bishop would deal 
with such a hardened offender. 

“I, for one, refuse to accompany you to London.” 

125 


Quinneys’ 


“Sorry.” 

“Are you sorry? I doubt it. Susan will miss me” — 
she wiped away two tears invisible to Quinney, and her 
voice trembled querulously as she continued — “and Posy 
will be deprived of a grandmother at a time when her 
mind and character are being made or marred. I un- 
derstand, also, that you are risking a fortune which is 
more than ample for a man in your station of life. It 
would appear also that you have taken this step in 
defiance of advice from the Marquess of Mel.” 

“I took it” — he drew in his breath sharply, speaking 
almost as solemnly as his very upright judge — “because 
I had to take it. Melchester is too small for me, too 
sleepy, too stoopid, too hide-bound. The most won- 
derful thing in the whole town is just like me.” 

“To what do you allude?” 

“To the spire of the Cathedral. It soars, don’t it? 
Can you see it laying flat on the ground? Can you 
fancy it asleep? It taught me to soar. When I was 
a boy, crawlin’ at the old man’s heel, I used to say to it : 
'Gosh, you’re well out of it!’ And now” — he smiled 
triumphantly — “I’m well out of it, for ever and ever, 
Amen !” 

Mrs. Biddlecombe rallied her failing energies for a 
last charge. Somehow she was impressed by this 
queer son-in-law. He confounded her. She remarked 
slowly : 

“It seems a strange thing to say, but I have heard of 
spires struck by God’s lightning.” 

“Maybe,” said Quinney, rising; “but you can take it 
from me that this spire won’t be struck because it’s 
fitted with a lightnin’ conductor.” 

126 


Salvage 

He retired, chuckling. Mrs. Biddlecombe shook her 
head. She was utterly at a loss to determine whether 
Quinney was alluding to the Cathedral spire or to him- 
self. If to himself, who or what was his lightning con- 
ductor? 


12 ? 


BOOK II 


CHAPTER X 


BLUDGEONINGS 


I 



ONDON exercised the influence that might be ex- 


pected upon such a character as Quinney’s. The 
soot, so to speak, brought out the chlorophyl. As he 
put it to Susan, with grim humour : 

“Makes us feel a bit green, hey?” 

He had supposed that the big dealers would ignore 
him; he had not expected what he found — active hos- 
tility. His first fight, for example, opened his eyes by 
closing one of them. A brief account of it must be 
chronicled. He had kept out of the auction rooms, like 
Christopher's, but he frequented small sales, and became 
a menace to a ring of Hebrew dealers, who, hitherto, 
had managed such affairs with great executive ability 
entirely in their own interests. Quinney was well aware 
of their methods. At the sale proper prices were kept 
at the lowest possible level. The real buying and sell- 
ing took place afterwards in a private room at some 
neighbouring tavern. Quinney, who was invited to join 
the “ring,” knew all about “knock-outs,” and decided 
that he would not identify himself with such an un- 
savoury crowd. Tamlin warned him. 

“Leave those swine alone, Joe.” 

“I mean to, old man.” 


129 


Qumneys’ 

“But remember this, they won’t leave you alone, the 
dirty dogs !” 

They didn’t. 

Upon the eve of a small sale in the suburbs, held at 
the house of a bankrupt merchant, who had bought, in 
the days of his prosperity, some good bits of furniture, 
Quinney was “nosing round,” as he called it, by him- 
self, jotting down in a notebook the prices he was pre- 
pared to pay on the morrow. Suddenly there entered a 
truculent-looking young man of the type that may be 
seen boxing at Wonderland, which is just off the White- 
chapel Road. He swaggered up to Quinney and said 
drawlingly : 

“Buyin’ against my crowd, you was, las’ week?” 

Quinney eyed him nervously, as he answered with 
spirit : 

“Your crowd, hey?” 

“I said my crowd. Want to join us?” 

“No, my lad, I don’t.” 

“Why not?” 

“I’m rather careful about the company I keep, see?” 

The young man glanced round. They were quite 
alone. Then he hit Quinney hard. Our hero ducked 
ineffectively, and caught the blow on his left eye. In- 
stantly he realized that his antagonist was what is called 
a “workman.” Nevertheless he “set about him.” In 
less than a minute the fine old adage which sets forth 
that right is greater than might was lamentably per- 
verted. Quinney was left half senseless on a Turkey 
carpet which bore stains of the encounter, and his ag- 
gressor fled. Next day, Quinney remained at home, 
tended by Susan, who admitted that she felt like Jael, 
the wife of Heber, the Kenite. 

130 


Bludgeonings 

“Can’t you prosecute?” she asked indignantly. 

“Never saw the fellow before, never likely to see him 
again. Hired for the job, he was — earned his money, 
too.” 

After this experience he kept out of third-class Lon- 
don sales, buying as before from provincial dealers, 
making it worth their while to come to him first. Your 
provincial man is not omniscient, and is prepared to 
accept a small profit upon every article that passes 
through his hands. Quinney secured some bargains, but 
he could not sell them, because he had no customers. 

His next experience was more serious. He had gone 
to Melshire to buy a certain satin-wood commode with 
panels painted by Angelica Kauffman. The owner of 
the commode, a fox-hunting squire, knew nothing of its 
value, but he happened to know Quinney, and he offered 
the commode to Quinney for fifty pounds. This inci- 
dent illustrates nicely the sense of honour which pre- 
vails among dealers in antiques. The commode had 
been advertised as part of the contents of an ancient 
manor house. Other Melshire dealers, many of them 
Quinney’s friends, were attending the sale. Immensely 
to the fox-hunting squire’s surprise, Quinney pointed 
out that it would not be fair to the other dealers to buy 
beforehand a valuable bit of furniture already adver- 
tised in a printed catalogue. He concluded : 

“It’ll fetch more than fifty pounds.” 

At the sale it fetched ninety-seven pounds. At the 
“knock-out” afterwards, bidding against the other deal- 
ers, Quinney paid nine hundred pounds for this “gem,” 
and told himself, with many chucklings, that he would 
double his money within a few weeks. He returned to 
London with his prize, and recited the facts to Susan, 

131 


Quinneys’ 

whose sympathy ranged itself upon the side of the 
Melshire squire. 

“Seems to me that poor man was robbed. Ninety- 
seven pounds for a thing that you say is worth two 
thousand. It's awful/’ 

“Is it? Now, look ye here, Susie, I’m going to put 
you right on this for ever and ever, see? I’m not in 
this business for my health. Like every other mer- 
chant, I buy in the cheapest market, and sell in the 
dearest. It’s not my business to educate country gen- 
tlemen, who’ve had twice my advantages. If the own- 
ers of good stuff don’t take the trouble to find out the 
value of what they’ve got, so much the worse for them, 
the blooming idiots ! I play the game, my girl. I might 
have bought that commode for a level fifty. Think of 
it! Why didn’t I? Because I’m an honourable man. 
Because it wouldn’t have been straight with the others 
who were after that commode. Has it soaked in? I’ll 
just add this: It’s we dealers who create values. Never 
thought o’ that, did you? Nor anyone else outside the 
profession. But it’s gospel truth. Dealers create the 
big prices, not the silly owners, who don’t know enough 
to keep their pictures in decent condition. I remember 
a country parson who kept his umbrella in a big famille 
verte jar. Tamlin bought that jar for a few pounds, 
and sold it at Christopher’s for fifteen hundred. The 
parson made a fine hullabaloo, but it served him jolly 
well right. We do the work, and we’re entitled to the 
big profits.” 

Susan felt crushed, but a leaven of her mother in her 
constrained her to reply: 

“I hope that commode is worth nine hundred pounds.” 

“It’s worth a damn sight more than that, Susie!” 

132 


Bludgeonings 

Tamlin came to see it next day. He examined it 
carefully, with his sharp nose cocked at a critical angle. 
Finally, he said hesitatingly : 

“Are you quite sure, Joe, that: Angelica Kauffman 
painted them panels?” 

“Just as sure, old man, as if I’d seen her at it.” 

Nevertheless, Tamlin’s question rankled. 

II 

With many apologies, we present the reader to 
Messrs. Lark and Bundy, of Oxford Street. Gustavus 
Lark is probably the best known of the London art 
dealers. He is now an old man, and his sons and 
Bundy’s sons manage an immense business. Ten years 
ago he had not retired. Criticism of him or his meth- 
ods is irrelevant to this chronicle, but a side-light is 
thrown upon them when we consider how he treated 
Joe Quinney, a young man against whom he had no 
grudge whatever. Gustavus Lark heard, of course, that 
a Melchester dealer, newly settled in Soho Square, had 
bought a commode said to be painted by Angelica Kauff- 
man for nine hundred pounds. Immediately he sent for 
his eldest son, a true chip of the old block. 

“Why did we not hear of this?” 

The son answered curtly: 

“Because we can’t hear of everything. There wasn’t 
one big London dealer at the sale; and the only thing 
worth having was this commode.” 

“Is it the goods?” 

“I believe so.” 

“Do you know?” 

“Well, yes — I know.” 


1 33 


Quinneys’ 

“I must send for Pressland.” 

Pressland deserves some little attention. England 
honours him as a connoisseur of Old Masters. Upon 
pictures his word is often the first and the last. We 
know that he “boomed” certain painters, long dead. To 
quote Quinney, he “created” values. And he worked 
hand in hand with just such men as Gustavus Lark. In 
appearance he might have been a successful dentist. 
He wore a frock-coat and small side-whiskers. He said 
“Please” in an ingratiating tone. His hands were scru- 
pulously clean, as if he had washed them often after 
dirty jobs. Out of a pale, sallow face shone two small 
gray eyes, set too close together. He contradicted other 
experts with an inimitable effrontery. “What is this?” 
he would say, laying a lean forefinger upon a doubtful 
signature. “A Velasquez? I think not. Why? Be- 
cause, my dear sir, I know!” 

Admittedly, he did know about Velasquez; and this 
knowledge was, so to speak, on tap, at the service of 
anybody willing to pay a reasonable fee. But his 
knowledge of furniture and porcelain was placed with 
reserve at the disposition of dealers. He told many 
persons that he made mistakes, and the public never 
guessed that such mistakes were paid for munificently. 

Gustavus Lark sent for Pressland. The men met 
in Lark’s sanctum, an austere little room, simply fur- 
nished. There is another room next to it, and when 
Gustavus sends for a very particular visitor nobody 
enters that ante-chamber except a member of the firm. 

“Do you know this Soho Square man, Quinney?” 

“I have met him.” 

“Has he come to stay ?” 

“Urn! I think so.” 

134 


Bludgeonings 

Gustavus Lark stroked his beard. He looked very 
handsome and prosperous, not unlike a genial monarch 
whom he was said by his clerks to understudy. 

“I want you,” he said slowly, “to go to Soho Square 
this morning, and if by any chance Quinney should ask 
your opinion of the commode, why” — he laughed pleas- 
antly — “in that case I shouldn’t mind betting quite a 
considerable sum that you would discover it to be — er — 
a clever reproduction.” 

Pressland smiled. 

“Probably.” 

“I mean to have a look at it myself later.” 

Pressland went his way. Part of his success in life 
may be assigned to a praiseworthy habit of executing 
small and big commissions with becoming promptitude. 
He strolled into Quinney’s shop as if he were the most 
idle man in town. 

“Anything to show me?” he asked languidly. 

Quinney was delighted to see him. He recognized 
Pressland at once. 

“Happy and honoured to see you, sir.” 

Presently, he took him upstairs into the drawing- 
room, already spoken of as the “sanctuary.” In it were 
all his beloved treasures. He had done up the room 
“regardless.” Here stood his Chippendale cabinet, filled 
with Early Worcester and Chelsea; here were his cher- 
ished prints in colour, his finest specimens of Water- 
ford glass, two or three beautiful miniatures, and many 
other things. Pressland was astonished, but he said 
little, nodding his head from time to time, and listening 
attentively to Quinney. As soon as he entered the room 
he perceived the satin-wood commode standing in the 
place of honour. 


135 


Qu limeys’ 

Pressland praised the Chippendale cabinet, and ig- 
nored the commode. Quinney frowned. Finally he 
jerked out: 

“What do you think of that, sir?” 

“What?” 

“That commode. Pedigree bit, out of an old Melshire 
manor house. Good stuff, hey?” 

Pressland adjusted his pince-nez, and stared hard 
and long at the panels. Quinney began to fidget. 

“Bit of all right— urn?” 

Pressland said slowly: 

“I hope you didn’t pay very much for it, Mr. Quin- 
ney.” 

“I paid a thumping big cheque for it. Never paid so 
much before for a single bit.” 

Pressland murmured pensively: 

“I thought you knew your furniture.” 

“Ain’t it all right? There’s no secret about what I 
paid. It’s been paragraphed — nine hundred pounds.” 

A soft whistle escaped from Pressland’s thin lips. He 
said depressingly : 

“I dare say you know more about those panels than 
I do.” 

Quinney protested vigorously : 

“Don’t play that^on me, Mr. Pressland. If I knew 
one quarter of what you know about pictures I’d be a 
proud man.” 

“A pedigree bit? What do you mean by that?” 

“Owner said it had been in his family for more than 
a hundred years. He said that the panels were painted 
by Angelica Kauffman.” 

“Are you quite sure he didn’t say after Angelica 
Kauffman ?” 

136 


Bludgeonings 

Quinney shook his head. From every pore of his skin 
confidence was oozing. 

“Did he know the value of it ?” 

“No, he didn’t.” 

“Ah ! He must have been pleased with your cheque.” 

Quinney explained matters. Pressland’s expression 
became acutely melancholy ; and his silence, as he turned 
away, was eloquent of a commiseration too deep for 
words. 

“Isn’t it right, Mr. Pressland?” 

“My opinion is worth little, Mr. Quinney.” 

“I’m prepared to pay for it if necessary.” 

“No, no, no ! Not from you. Well, then, I am afraid 
you have been had. Did the dealers at the 'knock-out’ 
suspect that you wanted it badly?” 

“Perhaps they did. I kept on bidding.” 

“Just so. It’s a little way they have. Very, very 
jealous, some of them. You have been successful. Suc- 
cess makes enemies. I have enemies. There are men 
in London who accuse me of abominable, unmention- 
able things.” He smiled modestly, spreading out his 
hands. 

“You can afford to laugh at ’em, Mr. Pressland.” 

“I do.” 

“Am I to take it from you, sir, that Angelica did not 
paint those panels?” 

Pressland shrugged his shoulders. 

“I am of opinion, and I may well be mistaken, that 
those panels were painted after Angelica Kauffman’s 
death, probably by a clever pupil. But please ask some- 
body else.” 

He drifted away, promising to call again, assuring 
Quinney that he would send him customers. 


137 


Quinneys’ 


hi 

Susan had the story red-hot from his trembling lips 
about ten minutes later. 

“I’ve been done — cooked to a crisp!” he wailed. 

She kissed and consoled him tenderly, but he re- 
fused to be comforted. She had applied raw steak to 
his injured eye. What balm could she pour upon a 
bruised and bleeding heart? 

“That man knows. He felt sorry for me. He hated 
to tell me. He promised that he would tell nobody else 
— a good sort ! What did your mother say — Sir Humpty 
and Lady Dumpty. There you are!” 

She kissed him again and stroked his face. 

“I was so sure of my own judgment, Susie. The 
loss of the money is bad enough, but everybody will 
find out that I’ve been had. That’s what tears me!” 

“He may be mistaken.” 

“Not he. He knows. I’ve a mind to go outside 
and hire a strong man to kick me.” 

Next morning there was a wholesome reaction. Susan 
and he stood in front of the commode. The sun 
streamed upon it. 

“By Gum! I do believe it’s all right. If it isn’t, I’d 
better go back to Melchester and stay there.” He 
caressed the lovely wood so tenderly that Susan felt 
jealous. “Oh, you beauty!” he exclaimed passionately. 
“I believe in you ; yes, I do. An artist created you. An 
artist painted those panels.” 

He recovered his cheerfulness, and assured Susan 
that he was prepared to back his opinion against Tam- 
lin, Pressland, and all other pessimists. 

138 


Bludgeonings 

Upon the following Monday Gustavus presented him- 
self. For a dizzy moment our hero believed that the 
most illustrious male in the kingdom had dropped in 
incognito. Gustavus wore a grey cut-away coat, with 
an orchid in the lapel of it, and he was smoking an im- 
posing cigar. 

“I am Gustavus Lark/’ he said. 

“Pleased to see you, Mr. Lark.” 

No man in England could make himself more agree- 
able than the great dealer. Gossip had it that he had 
begun life as a “rapper.” A rapper, as the name sig- 
nifies, is one who raps at all doors, seeking what he 
may find behind them — a bit of porcelain, a valuable 
print, an old chair — anything. A successful rapper must 
combine in one ingratiating personality the qualities of 
a diplomat, a leader of forlorn hopes, a high-class bur- 
glar, and an American book agent. When the door 
upon which he has rapped opens, he must enter, and 
refuse to budge till he has satisfied himself that there 
is nothing in his line worth the buying. 

Tamlin had the following story to tell of Gustavus, 
as a rapper. You must take it for what it's worth. 
Tamlin, we know, was a bit of a rascal, and a liar of 
the first magnitude, but he affirmed solemnly that the 
tale is true. 

Behold Gustavus in the good old days of long ago, 
when prints in colours were still to be found in cot- 
tages, rapping at the door of some humble house. A 
widow opens it, and asks a good-looking young man what 
his business may be. He enters audaciously, and states 
it. He is seeking board and lodging. He is seeking, 
also, a set of the London “Cries.” But he does not 
mention that. He has heard — it is his business to hear 

139 


Quinneys’ 

such gossip — that the widow possesses the complete set 
in colour, the full baker’s dozen. He arranges for a 
week’s board and lodging, and he satisfies himself that 
the prints are genuine specimens. In his satchel he 
carries thirteen bogus prints, excellent reproductions. At 
dead of night he takes from the frames the genuine 
prints and substitutes the false ones. Three days after- 
wards he goes to London, and, later, sells the prints 
for a sum sufficient to start him in business. But he 
does not rest there, as a lesser man might well do. A 
rapper’s hands, be it noted, are against all men. He 
robs cheerfully the men of his own trade — the small 
dealers. Gustavus, then, proceeds to pile Pelion upon 
Ossa. He next visits a dealer of his acquaintance and 
tells him that he has discovered a genuine set of “Cries,” 
which can be bought cheap in their original frames. 
The dealer, who is not an expert in colour prints, is 
deceived by the frames and by the authentic yarn which 
the widow spins. He does buy the prints cheap, and 
sells them as genuine to one of the innumerable col- 
lectors with more money than brains. Gustavus gets 
his commission and nets a double profit! 

Quinney had heard this story from Tamlin and 
others, but the benevolent appearance of his visitor put 
suspicion to flight, as it had done scores of times be- 
fore. It was quite impossible to believe that an old 
gentleman, who bore such an amazing resemblance to 
one venerated as the Lord’s anointed, could have begun 
his career as a rapper! 

“Anything of interest to show me?” asked Gustavus 
blandly. He treated everybody, except his own under- 
strappers, with distinguished courtesy. He spoke to 
140 


Bludgeonings 

Quinney, whom he despised, exactly as he would have 
spoken to a Grand Duke. 

“Glad to take you round, Mr. Lark.” 

“I am told that you do not sell to dealers.” 

“That’s as may be. I want to build up a business 
with private customers.” 

“Quite right. My own methods.” 

He glanced round the shop, which was divided 
roughly into two sections. In the first were genuine 
bits; in the second were the best reproductions con- 
spicuously labelled as such. The reproductions were so 
superlatively good that Lark recognized at once the 
character of the man who had so audaciously exposed 
them. Then and there he made up his mind that Quin- 
ney was to be reckoned with. He smiled as he waved 
a white hand protestingly at a piece of tapestry which 
might have challenged the interest of an expert. He 
had sold such tapestry as old Gobelins, and he knew 
that the maker of it only dealt with a chosen few. 

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” said Quinney. 

“You mean to sell first-class copies as such?” 

“Yes. I guarantee what I sell, Mr. Lark, as — as you 
do.” 

“I don’t sell fakes.” 

“Not necessary in your case. Will you come up- 
stairs ?” 

“With pleasure.” 

Quinney was trembling with excitement. Gustavus 
noticed this, and werlt on smiling. Pressland had pre- 
pared him. He praised and appraised many things in the 
sanctuary, but he merely glanced at the commode. 

“I want you to look at this, Mr. Lark.” 

141 


Quinneys’ 

“Bless me! Is that the commode which you bought 
in Melshire?” 

“It is. What do you think of it?” 

Gustavus protruded a large lower lip; his eyebrows, 
strongly marked, expressed surprise, a twinkle in his 
left eye indicated discreet amusement. 

“Why isn’t it downstairs with the others?” 

“The others?” 

“By the side of that piece of tapestry.” 

“It’s the best bit I have,” said Quinney defiantly. 

“Surely not. I have bought such tapestry as yours 
before. I will admit that I paid a big figure for it. 
We dealers are sadly done sometimes. This commode 
is quite as good in its way as the Gobelins, but it ought 
not to be next that cabinet.” 

“Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Lark, that you call it 
a fake?” 

“A fake — no. A copy admirably executed — yes.” 

“Oh, Lord!” 

He made no attempt to conceal his distress. Gustavus 
patted his shoulder encouragingly. 

“I may be mistaken. I am often mistaken.” 

“You?” 

“Even I. Come, come, I see that I have upset you. 
But, as a friend, as a brother dealer, I say this: Get 
rid of it. You are taking up a line of your own. You 
mean to sell honest copies as such, and to guarantee the 
genuine bits. A capital idea. Only don’t mix up the 
two. To succeed in London it is necessary to establish 
a reputation. My eldest son tells me that you built up 
a substantial business in Melchester — that your reputa- 
tion there was above reproach. Excellent ! I rejoiced 
to hear it. In our business we want men like you. 

142 


Bludgeonings 

But, no compromise ! Sell that commode for what it is, 
a fine copy executed at the end of the eighteenth cen- 
tury. As such it has a considerable value. I have a 
customer, an American gentleman, who would buy it to- 
morrow for what it is, and pay a handsome figure. ,, 

The unhappy Quinney moistened his lips with a fever- 
ish tongue. 

“What do you call a handsome figure, Mr. Lark?” 

“Five or six hundred.” 

“And I paid nine!” 

“Well, well!” 

Gustavus turned his broad back upon the commode, 
and examined the Early Worcester in the Chippendale 
cabinet. There was a tea-set of the Dr. Wall period, 
bearing the much-prized square mark, some thirty pieces 
of scale blue with flowers delicately painted in richly- 
gilded panels. 

“Is that scale-blue for sale?” 

“At a price, Mr. Lark. I have had it for three years. 
Fm waiting for a customer who will give me two hun- 
dred pounds, not a penny less.” 

“Two hundred pounds? And you won’t sell to the 
dealers who have customers who write such big cheques. 
Now, look here, Mr. Quinney, I am sorry for you. I 
know how you feel, because I have made, I repeat, sad 
and costly blunders myself. You don’t ask enough for 
that scale-blue.” 

“Not enough?” 

“I could sell that set for three hundred this after- 
noon. To prove that I am not boasting I will offer you 
two hundred guineas, cash on the nail.” 

“Done!” said Quinney. He added excitedly: “I’m 

M3 


Quinneys’ 

much obliged, Mr. Lark. I wish you could send me the 
American gentleman.” 

Gustavus laughed. He looked at Quinney with quite 
a paternal air. 

“Come, come, isn’t that asking too much?” 

“I beg pardon, of course it is, but what am I to do 
about that commode?” 

“I repeat — sell it.” 

“You know that I hav’n’t a dog’s chance of selling 
it now. Don’t flimflam me, Mr. Lark! You’re too 
big a man, too good a sort. You’ve treated me hand- 
somely over that scale-blue. Now help me out of this 
hole, if you can.” 

Lark nodded impressively. He went back to the com- 
mode, and examined it meticulously, opening and shut- 
ting the doors, looking at the back, scraping the paint 
of the panels with the point of a penknife. Then the 
oracle spoke portentously: 

“I never haggle with dealers, Mr. Quinney, and I 
don’t want that commode; but, to oblige you, I’ll give 
you five hundred for it, and chance making a hundred 
profit.” 

“Make it six hundred, Mr. Lark.” 

“I repeat — I never haggle.” 

“Damn it! I must cut a loss.” 

“Always the wise thing to do. My offer holds good 
for twenty-four hours. Isn’t Tamlin a friend of 
yours ?” 

“We’ve had many dealings together.” 

“He might pay more.” 

“Not he. I’ll accept your offer, Mr. Lark, with many 
thanks. I’ll not forget this.” 

Gustavus returned to Oxford Street. He sold the 
144 


Bludgeonings 

commode to an American millionaire for two thousand 
five hundred pounds, but Quinney, fortunately for his 
peace of mind, never discovered this till some years 
had passed. 

He told Tom Tamlin that Lark was a perfect gen- 
tleman, and that the story of the Rapper and the Lon- 
don 'Cries’ was a malicious lie on the face of it. 

Tamlin sniffed. 


145 


CHAPTER XI 


MORE BLUDGEONINGS 


I 


HE loss of four hundred pounds stimulated our 



JL hero to greater efforts. Deep down in his heart, 
moreover, lay the desire to rehabilitate himself. Susan 
had spared him exasperating reproaches, but he per- 
ceived, so he fancied, pity in her faithful eyes. Her 
ministrations recalled that humiliating Channel cross- 
ing, when his superiority as a male had been buried in 
a basin! Let us admit that he wanted to play the god 
with Susan, to shake the sphere of home with his 
Olympian nod, to hear her soft ejaculation: “Joe, dear, 
you are wonderful !” 

At this crisis in his fortunes he found himself, for 
the first time in his life, with time on his hands. His 
premises were overstocked to such an extent that he 
dared not run the temptation of attending sales. To 
succeed greatly, he only needed customers; and they 
shunned him as if Soho Square were an infected dis- 
trict. 

It began to strike him that he had embarked upon a 
highly speculative business. Tamlin was clear upon 
this point. 

“IPs a gamble if you go for big things. Buying 
that commode was a gamble. You can’t escape from 
it. That’s what makes it interesting. Win a tidy bit 


146 


More Bludgeonings 

here, lose a tidy bit there, and it’s all the same a hun- 
dred years hence.” 

This familiar philosophy percolated through Quin- 
ney’s mind. It never occurred to him that he could be 
called a gambler, and yet something in him thrilled at 
the name. He heard Tamlin’s platitudes, and won- 
dered why he had never thought of them before. 

“Farming's gambling — a mug’s game! Sooner put 
my money on to a horse than into the ground! Mar- 
riage! The biggest gamble of all! You struck a win- 
ner, my lad — I didn’t.” 

“I suppose,” said Quinney, staring hard at Tamlin, 
“that you don’t gamble outside your business?” 

“Yes, I do, when I get a gilt-edged tip.” 

“Race-horses ?” 

“Stock Exchange. Customers tell me things. I’m 
fairly in the know, I am. Make a little bit, lose a little 
bit! It binges me up when I feel blue.” 

“I’d like to get back a slice o’ that lost four hundred 
quid.” 

“Maybe I can help you to do it. A customer of mine 
is in the Kaffir Market.” 

“Kaffir Market! What’s that?” 

It has been said that Quinney was grossly ignorant 
of things outside his own business. 

“If you ain’t as innocent as Moses in the bulrushes! 
African Mines, you greenhorn! He tells me of things. 
Never let me down — not once. He says a boom is just 
due.” 

“Do you risk much, Tom?” 

“Lord bless you, no! I buy a few likely shares on 
margin, and carry ’em over. A man must have some 
excitement.” 


147 


Quinneys’ 

“Yes,” said Quinney thoughtfully, “he must.” 

He did not mention this talk to Susan, but as he 
kicked his heels waiting for customers, the necessity of 
excitement — any excitement — gripped at his vitals. 
Meanwhile, let it be placed to his credit that he resisted 
the daily temptation to sell stuff to dealers. He could 
have sold his treasures to Lark at a fine profit, but he 
remained true to the principle: keep your best things 
to attract private customers. He hoped that his kind 
patron, Lord Mel, would come to see him. Possibly his 
lordship was offended, because his advice had been 
spurned. Then he heard that Lord Mel was abroad, 
and not likely to return to England for several months. 
He missed the bi-weekly meetings at the Mitre, and he 
did not dare to tell his Susan that he was depressed 
and dull, because he dreaded the inevitable “I told you 
so.” Susan missed her few friends, and Quinney 
strained his powers of deception in the attempt to cheer 
her up by affirming that he had bettered his position 
by leaving Melchester. 

Many wise persons contend that if you want anything 
inordinately, you get it. Excitement came to Quinney 
when he least expected it. 


II 

Hitherto adventurers of the first flight had left him 
alone. Small impostors are easily detected. Nobody 
could deal with the baser sort of trickster more dras- 
tically than Quinney. Rappers, for example, rapped in 
vain at his door. If he opened it, they never crossed 
the threshold. But when a provincial pigeon, preening 
his wings, is discovered within a stone’s throw of the 
148 


More Bludgeonings 

Greek quarter in London, some fancier is likely to make 
an attempt to bag the bird. Such a one entered Quin- 
ney’s establishment some three months after the lament- 
able sale of the commode. He appeared to be a quiet, 
well-dressed man, and he wore a single pearl in his 
cravat, which inspired confidence. He asked Quinney 
if he ever attended sales as an agent, to buy things on 
the usual commission. Quinney had acted as agent for 
Lord Mel upon several occasions, and we may pardon 
him for mentioning the fact to the stranger, who seemed 
mildly impressed. He remarked casually that he knew 
Lord Mel, and had shot some high pheasants at Mel 
Court. Quinney, in his turn, was impressed by this 
information, for he knew that Lord Mel was nice in 
his selection of guests. Eventually Quinney consented 
to attend a certain sale, and to bid for two Dutch pic- 
tures which the stranger had marked in a catalogue. 

“This is my card,” said the stranger. “I shall be 
happy to give you a banker’s reference.” He named a 
well-known bank, but Quinney was quite satisfied with 
the name and address on the card. His visitor was an 
army officer, a Major Fraser, and he belonged to a 
famous Service Club. 

Somewhat to his disappointment, the two Dutch pic- 
tures fetched a price beyond the limit imposed by the 
Major, who dropped in next day and expressed his 
regrets. He was so civil and genial that Quinney hoped 
to have the honour of serving him on some future 
occasion. The Major glanced at the sanctuary, and 
before leaving paid ten pounds for a small Bow figure, 
and ordered it to be sent to the Savoy Hotel. After 
he had gone, Quinney found a letter addressed to Major 
Archibald Fraser, of Loch Tarvie, Inverness, N.B. He 

149 


Quinneys’ 

sent back the letter with the Bow figure, and he was 
curious enough to look up Major Archibald Fraser in 
Kelly's “Handbook to the Titled, Landed, and Official 
Classes." He discovered, to his satisfaction, that the 
Major owned two properties in Scotland, and was a 
Justice of the Peace. He had married the daughter of 
a well-known Scotch magnate. Quinney chuckled and 
rubbed his hands. The right sort were finding their way 
to Soho Square at last. After this the Major dropped 
in again and again, always in search of knowledge, 
which Quinney supplied with increasing pleasure. In a 
word, the pigeon was ready for plucking. 

During his next visit the Major spoke with enthusiasm 
of a picture he had discovered in Dorset. He assured 
Quinney that the picture was a genuine Murillo. Then 
he pulled a bundle of notes out of his pocket, handed 
twenty pounds to Quinney, and delivered the following 
speech : 

“I must go to Inverness to-night," he said regret- 
fully. “My factor has wired for me about the letting 
of a forest of mine. Take this money on account of 
expenses, go to Dorchester, do yourself well — there is 
an excellent inn there, and a few bottles left of some 
'68 port. To-morrow there will be a sale at a small 
auction mart in the town. This picture will be offered. 
Here’s a photograph of it. Buy it for me. In three 
days I shall be back in town." 

He was hurrying away when Quinney stopped him. 
Queer notions of business these army gentlemen had, 
to be sure! 

“What am I to bid for the picture, Major?" 

“I’ll go to fifteen hundred. I shouldn’t be furious 
150 


More Bludgeonings 

if you paid a hundred more. Wire to Loch Tarvie! 
Bye-bye !” 

He was away before Quinney could get in another 
word. 

“Thruster, and no error !” murmured Quinney to him- 
self. 

He travelled to Dorchester that afternoon and paid a 
visit to the auction mart before dinner. The auctioneer 
knew him, and expressed surprise at seeing him, for he 
was selling only job lots. 

“Nothing to interest you, Mr. Quinney.” 

“Perhaps not. I’ll have a squint round as I am here.” 

The auctioneer accompanied him, and Quinney soon 
found his picture, which was very dirty and incon- 
spicuous. Old masters were not in his line, but he 
recognized the frame at once as being genuine — a fine 
specimen of carved wood, although much battered. The 
auctioneer said carelessly: 

“I had a gentleman staring at that picture this morn- 
ing. You’re after the frame, I dare say.” 

Quinney made no reply. He saw that a small portion 
of the dirty canvas had been rubbed. 

“Might look quite different if it was cleaned,” said 
the auctioneer. “The other fellow did that with his 
handkerchief and a small bottle of stuff he carried in 
his pocket. I didn’t like to object. Colour comes out 
nicely !” 

“Who does it belong to?” 

“A stranger to me. I take everything as it comes. 
I’m in a small way of business, as you know, Mr. Quin- 
ney; but some nice stuff has passed through my hands.” 

He plunged into an ocean of reminiscences, punctu- 
ating his remarks with lamentations of ignorance. 

I5i 


Quinneys’ 

“If I really knew. Suppose it’s a gift. You have it, 
Mr. Quinney. I have a sort of general knowledge of 
values, but it’s the special knowledge that picks up the 
big bargains.” 

Quinney returned to his hotel. 

At the auction next day two or three country dealers, 
small men, with whom he had a nodding acquaintance, 
were bidding. The gentleman who was interested in 
the picture was present also, languidly indifferent to 
the proceedings. However, he became animated when 
the picture was put up as “a valuable Madonna and 
Child, the work of an old master.” The gentleman bid 
a hundred for it, apparently to the surprise of the small 
dealers. 

“One hundred and twenty-five,” said Quinney. 

The gentleman bent down to whisper a word to a 
man who stood next him, and then he stared hard at 
Quinney, with a slight frown upon his smooth fore- 
head. 

“One hundred and fifty,” he said quietly. 

Finally Quinney secured the picture for eleven hun- 
dred pounds, well pleased at having secured it so cheap. 
The rival bidder led him aside. 

“You are the famous dealer, Joseph Quinney?” 

Quinney smiled complacently. The gentleman con- 
tinued in a whisper: 

“I expected to get that picture for a hundred pounds. 
You have fairly outbidden me, and I could not bid a 
farthing more to-day; but will you kindly tell me what 
you will take for your bargain?” 

“Sorry,” said Quinney; “but I bought it on a com- 
mission for a well-known collector.” 

“There is no more to be said,” replied the other. 

152 


More Bludgeonings 

He nodded pleasantly and vanished. Quinney never 
saw him again. Nor did he see Major Archibald 
Fraser. Quinney paid the auctioneer with a cheque, 
and returned to London, after wiring the Major that 
the treasure was his. Three days later, not hearing a 
word from his client, he became slightly uneasy. His 
cheque had been cashed; the picture was in his pos- 
session. The abominable truth leaked out slowly. Ma- 
jor Archibald Fraser, of Loch Tarvie, had been im- 
personated by a chevalier d’industrie. The picture was 
worth, perhaps, forty pounds, and the frame another 
five-and-twenty ! 

The pigeon from the country had been plucked. 


Ill 

The poor fellow sobbed out the facts to his Susan in a 
passion of self-abasement. The loss of the money was 
serious enough, but what ground him to powder was 
the fact that he had become the laughing-stock of the 
London dealers. Every man jack of them knew. He 
could not show his face in an auction-room without 
provoking spasms of raucous laughter. The Dorchester 
auctioneer, called upon to prove his innocence (which 
he did), made the tale public. It was acclaimed as 
“copy” by scores of newspapers. And salt was rubbed 
into his wounds by the reporters, whose sympathy 
seemed to lie with the two scoundrels who had devised 
so clever a scheme, and escaped with the swag! There 
was a cruel headline: “A Biter Bit.” 

“Whom have I bit?” he demanded of Susan. 

The little woman mingled her tears with his, but no 

153 


Quinneys’ 

words of hers could assuage his misery or stem the tor- % 
rent of self -accusation. 

“Nice sort of fool you’ve married! A mug of mugs! 
You was right. Ought to have remained in Melchester! 
Ought to have remained in swaddling clothes! Ought 
never to have been born!” 

He apostrophized Posy, now a child of ten. 

“Nice sort o’ father you’ve got ! Look at him ! Why 
didn’t you choose somebody else, hey? Picked a wrong 
’un, you did!” 

Posy lifted her young voice and wept with her par- 
ents. And then Susan, almost hysterical, said with 
unconscious humour: 

“Gracious! Isn’t this a rainy afternoon!” 

IV 

After a few days the sun shone again. Lord Mel, 
who had returned to England, called upon his former 
tenant, and listened with sympathy to the tale of 
thwackings. Quinney added details which he had kept 
from Susan. Fired by Tamlin, he had ventured into 
the Kaffir Market, where the bears had mauled him. 
His losses, fortunately, were inconsiderable; but once 
again he had been “downed” by Londoners. He was 
too proud to whine before Lord Mel, and from long 
habit he expressed himself whimsically. 

“Not fit to cross the road without a policeman. Time 
I advertised for a nurse or a keeper!” 

“Are you thinking of going back to Melchester?” 

At this Quinney exploded. . 

“My lord, I couldn’t face Pinker, and Mrs. Biddle- 
combe would cackle and nag at me till I wrung her 
154 


More Bludgeonings 

neck. She wrote to Susan to say that she was sorry 
to hear that the Lord had seen fit to afflict me griev- 
ously. In her heart she’s glad.” 

“You don’t blame the Lord?” 

“I blame myself. I’ve been a silly daw, strutting 
about like a peacock. I wanted a fight, and I’ve had 
it; but I can’t go back to Melchester. I must stick it 
out here, win or lose, customers or no customers. If 
the worst comes to the worst, I can sell to dealers. It 
means slavery.” 

“But you have some customers?” 

“Very few — the wrong sort. Mostly women, who 
don’t value their own time or mine. They look at my 
stuff, and call it ‘rather nice’; they try to pick up a 
few wrinkles about glass and porcelain, and then they 
drift out, promising to call again.” 

“We must try to alter this.” 

“It does me good to see your lordship’s face again.” 

Lord Mel bought a table and some Irish glass. He 
shook Quinney’s hand at parting genially. 

“You’ve had a dose. Perhaps your system needed 
it. Pay my respects to Mrs. Quinney, and tell her not 
to worry.” 

Quinney ran upstairs to Susan. 

“Lord Mel’s been in. Sent his respects to you. You’re 
not to worry — see?” 

“I am not worrying much, Joe. Nobody escapes hard 
times.” 

“His lordship has faith in me. He ain’t offended. 
Just the same as ever. I told him everything — more 
than I told you.” 

“More than you told me?” 

“I lost a few hundreds dabbling in mines. All that 

155 


Quinneys’ 

foolishness is over and done with. I mean to stick to 
what I know, and the people I know who’ll stick to me. 
I shall give my undivided attention to business. I mean 
to work harder than ever, so as to win back what 
I’ve lost.” 

“How much have you lost, dear?” 

“I’m not speakin’ of money, Susie. I’ve lost my 
self-respect, and I don’t stand with you just where I 
did.” 

“You do — you know you do!” 

He shook his head obstinately. 

“I know I don’t. You ain’t suffering from a crick 
in the neck along of lookin’ up at me. I ain’t been 
soaring lately. Wriggling like a crushed worm about 
fits me.” 

“Joe, dear, you’ve never quite understood me.” 

“Hey?” 

“I married you for better or worse.” 

He stared at her amazedly. 

“Lawsy! It never entered into your pretty head that 
it could be for worse?” 

“I should love you just the same if it were.” 

“No, no, that ain’t sense, Susie. It won’t wash. 
You loved me because I was Joe Quinney — a feller with 
ambitions, a worker, a man with brains in his head. 
If I failed you, I should expect you to despise me. I 
should feel that I’d had you under false pretences.” 

Susan smiled very faintly. Her voice was curiously 
incisive : 

“You have a lot to learn yet, Joe, about persons.” 


CHAPTER XII 


POSY 

I 

L ORD MEL sent many customers to Soho Square. 

He felt sincerely sorry for the little man, and 
told everybody that he was a fighter and a striver, and 
“straight.” Within a few months Quinney became the 
Quinney of old, full of enthusiasm and swagger, exud- 
ing energy, quite confident that he was soaring, and 
likely to become a spire! An American millionaire one 
morning made a clean sweep of half the treasures in 
the sanctuary. Orders to furnish rooms in a given 
style with first-class reproductions came joyously to 
hand, and were executed promptly and at a reasonable 
price. 

In due time, also, he became a member of the inner 
ring of big dealers. They tried to “freeze him out” by 
inflating prices, often at a serious loss to themselves, 
but eventually they were constrained to admit that the 
Melchester man was too shrewd for them., with a 
knowledge of values which seemed to have fallen upon 
him like the dew from heaven. At any moment he 
might stop bidding with an abruptness very discon- 
certing to the older men, leaving them with the lapin 
which they were trying to impose upon him. 

In those early days he found the Caledonian market 

157 


Quinneys’ 

a happy hunting-ground, securing immense quantities of 
Georgian steel fire-irons, fenders, and dog-grates, at 
that time in no demand. He stored them in his im- 
mense cellars, covering them with a villainous prepara- 
tion of his own which defied rust. 

“Good stuff to lay down,” he remarked. 

Afterwards the big dealers asked him how he had 
contrived to foresee the coming demand for old cut 
glass. Of this he had bought immense quantities also. 
He answered them in his own fashion. 

“Can you tell me why one breed of dog noses out 
truffles?” 

He bought innumerable spinets, good, bad, and indif- 
ferent, with reckless confidence. Even Tamlin remon- 
strated. 

“What are you going to do with them?” 

“You’ll see,” said Quinney. 

One more blunder — and the use to which he turned it 
— must be chronicled. By this time he was recognized 
as an expert on eighteenth-century furniture. But he 
admitted that there were one or two who knew more 
than he. Tamlin, for example, who would drop in at 
least once a week for a chat and a glass of brown 
sherry. Upon one of these visits he found Quinney in 
a state of enthusiasm over a Chippendale armchair, un- 
earthed in a small provincial town. Tamlin examined 
it carefully, and pronounced it a fake. 

Quinney refused to believe this; but ultimately con- 
viction that he had been “had” once more was forced 
upon him. 

“Bar none, it’s the best copy I ever saw,” remarked 
Tamlin. 

Quinney accepted his old friend’s chaff with some 

158 


Posy 

chucklings. Next day, he returned to the provincial 
town, and discovered the young cabinet-maker who had 
made the fake. He returned to Soho in triumph, bring- 
ing the cabinet-maker with him. His name was James 
Miggott, and he entered into a contract to serve Quin- 
ney for three years at a salary of two pounds a week. 

“Seems a lot,” said Susan. 

“He was earning twenty-five bob. I shall turn him 
loose on those spinets.” 

Most people know something about Quinney’s spinets 
transformed by the hand of the skilful James into 
writing-desks, sideboards, and dressing-tables. The 
spinets brought many customers to Soho Square. 

“Stock booming?” said Tamlin. 

“It is,” said Quinney. He added reflectively : “I sold 
a spinet to-day, for which I gave fifteen shillings, for 
just the same number o’ pounds. James put in just one 
week on it. That’s all, by Gum!” 

Some dealers maintain that Quinney made his reputa- 
tion with spinets, inasmuch as he sold more of them 
for a couple of years than the trade put together. But 
he himself believes that his Waterford glass brought the 
right customers — the famous collectors who buy little, 
but talk and write much. They liked Quinney because 
he was so keen ; and he never grudged the time spent in 
showing his wares to non-buyers. 

“They tell others,” he observed to Susan. “No 'ad/ 
can beat that.” 

He had other dodges to capture trade. It became 
known that he charged nothing for giving his opinion 
upon specimens submitted to him. And he had an 
endearing habit of writing to purchasers of the spinets 
within a few months or weeks of the deal, offering an 

159 


Quinneys’ 

advance on the price paid, a “nice little profit,” in- 
variably refused. 

“Bless ’em ! It warms their hearts to think they’ve 
made a sound investment.” 

“How surprised and disappointed you’d be, Joe, if 
they accepted your offer !” 

“Right you are, Susie; but there’s little fear of that, 
my girl.” 

When a new customer entered the shop, Quinney 
would adopt an air of guileless indifference, which was 
likely to provoke the remark: 

“Where is Mr. Quinney?” 

“I’m Quinney. Like to have a look round? You 
may see something you fancy.” 

“That’s a nice pie-crust table.” 

“It’s a gem. Cheap, too.” 

Then he would give a low whistle, a clear, flute-like 
note. James would appear from below. 

“Where’s the receipted bill for this table?” 

The bill was produced and shown to the stranger. 

“See? Paid four pounds seventeen for it, just five 
weeks ago. Look at the date. You shall have it for 
six pounds, and, by Gum ! I’ll make you this offer. You 
can return it to me any day you like within a year, and 
I’ll give you five pound ten for it. How’s that, as 
between man and man?” 

These seemingly artless methods captivated the “think- 
it-overs” and the “rather nicers,” who frequent curiosity 
shops in ever-increasing numbers. Mothers brought 
daughters to Soho Square to acquire historical infor- 
mation. Quinney refused to sell a Jacobean armchair 
because it was so useful an object-lesson to young and 
inquiring minds. 

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Posy 

“Look at that, madam, 1 ” he would say. Perhaps the 
lady would murmur softly: “It is rather nice, isn’t it?” 
And the flapper would exclaim enthusiastically : “Mum- 
sie, it’s perfectly lovely !” 

“Much more than that!” Quinney would add, with 
mysterious chucklings. “See that rose? It’s a Stuart 
rose. And that crown on the front splat is an emblem 
of loyalty to the Merry Monarch.” 

“Dear me! You hear that, Kitty!” 

“Pay partic’lar attention to the legs, ladies. Ball and 
paw, the lion’s paw, with hair above them, indicatin’ 
the strength of the Constitootion after the Restoration. 
Chapter of English history, that chair.” 

He could embellish such simple themes according to 
fancy, and with due regard for the patience of his 
listener. To Susan he spoke of these intellectual ex- 
ercises as “my little song and dance.” 

II 

Meanwhile, Posy was growing up, becoming a tall, 
slender, pretty girl. She attended a day-school in Or- 
chard Street — a select seminary for young ladies. Susan 
accompanied her to and from Orchard Street. By this 
time she had accepted, with a serenity largely temper- 
amental, the fate allotted to her. Once more Quinney 
was absorbed in his business. Adversity had brought 
husband and wife together, prosperity sundered them. 
Very rarely does it happen that a successful man can 
spare time to spend on his wife. The charming slack- 
ers make the most congenial mates. Compensation has 
thus ordained it, wherein lie tragedy and comedy. Many 
women, to the end of their lives, are incapable of real- 

161 


Quinneys’ 

izin g this elementary fact. They want their husbands 
to climb high — the higher the better; they understand, 
perhaps more clearly than men, what can be seen and 
enjoyed from the tops; they pluck, often as a matter 
of course, and gobble up the grapes of Eschol, but they 
refuse to accept the inevitable penalties of supreme en- 
deavour. Their husbands return to them almost found- 
ered, fit only to eat and sleep. In the strenuous com- 
petition of to-day what else is possible? 

Susan did not complain, but then she belonged to the 
generation who accepted with pious resignation life as 
it is. Indeed, she accounted herself singularly fortunate, 
and whenever the present seemed dreary she fortified 
herself by thinking of a rosy past, or projected herself 
into an enchanted future, when he and she, Darby and 
Joan, would wander hand in hand to some garden of 
sleep, some drowsy country churchyard, where they 
would lie down together to await an ampler and hap- 
pier intercourse in the life beyond. 

Her interest in persons as opposed to things quick- 
ened with the growth of her child. Posy became to 
her what a Chelsea shepherdess modelled by Roubiliac 
was to Quinney — a bit of wonderful porcelain to be 
enshrined, a museum piece ! The maternal instincts 
budded and bloomed the more bravely because con- 
jugal emotion was denied full expression. She faced 
unflinchingly the conviction that Posy must marry and 
leave her. By that time Joe might be more ready to 
enjoy the fruits of labour. For the moment, then, her 
husband was pigeon-holed. He remained at the back 
of her mind, at the bottom of her heart, masked by 
that sprightly creature, his daughter. 

Posy accepted Susan’s love as a matter of course. 

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Posy 


III 

For her years — she was just fifteen — the girl ex- 
hibited a precocious intelligence and an essentially mas- 
culine shrewdness which distinguished her sire. In the 
girl’s presence Quinney observed no reticences. In- 
variably he discussed, with boyish zest and volubility, 
the day’s trafficking. Posy was not allowed to potter 
about the shop, but she ran at will in and out of the 
sanctuary, and she knew the value of every “gem” in 
it, and its history. Susan dared not interfere, but she 
prayed that Joe’s child might not be tempted to wor- 
ship false gods. In an artless fashion she attempted 
to inculcate a taste for high romance. She read aloud 
“Ivanhoe,” and was much distressed by Posy’s com- 
ments upon certain aspects of the tale. 

“The men had a good time, but the women’s lives 
must have been deadly. I’m jolly glad that I’m a twen- 
center!” She continued fluently: “You have a rotten 
time, mummie.” 

“My dear!” 

“But you do. I couldn’t stick your life !” 

She used slang freely, protesting, when rebuked, that 
she picked it up from the lips of her chum, Ethel Honey- 
bun, who was exalted as the daughter of a Member of 
Parliament. Susan’s silence encouraged her to go on: 

“I want all the fun I can get. What fun have you 
had? You sew a lot, you read aloud to me, you take 
me to school — although I’m quite able to go alone — 
you order the meals, you are father’s slave.” 

“I won’t have you say that!” 

“But it’s true.” 

163 


Quinneys’ 

“I love your father. I married for love. I am happy 
and contented in my own home. I have no patience 
with these new-fangled notions about women’s rights 
and women’s wrongs.” 

“Ethel says ” 

“I don’t wish to hear what Ethel says. Fun, indeed ! 
Why, child, I’ve had you.” 

“Was that fun?” She spoke seriously, fixing her 
mother with a pair of clear, grey eyes. “Some girls 
love dolls. Dolls rather bored me. Is it fun to mess 
about with a baby, wash it and dress it, and take it out 
in a pram? I call hockey fun.” 

“You’ll lose a front tooth some fine day. That will 
be great fun.” 

“Let’s be perfectly calm. I love talking things out. 
You don’t. I mean to say you try to hide your real 
self from me. Didn’t you think and talk as I do when 
you were a girl?” 

“Most certainly not!” 

“You are an old-fashioned darling, and I love you 
for it! I shouldn’t like you to talk as Mrs. Honeybun 
does. She says you and father spoil me. I wonder if 
that’s true. She gives Ethel beans sometimes, and 
Ethel answers back as if they were equals. It would 
give Granny a fit to hear her!” 

Twice a year Posy paid a ceremonial visit to Mrs. 
Biddlecombe. The old lady was very fond of her, al- 
though she sniffed at her upbringing. Posy, indeed, 
had won a moral victory during her first visit, shortly 
after the Quinneys moved to London. At the end of 
three days Mrs. Biddlecombe had said majestically to 
the child: 

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself, my dear!” 

164 


Posy 

“I’m not,” said Posy, with shocking candour. 

“Why not?” demanded the astonished grandmother. 

“Because you’ve been so wonnerful peevish.” 

“Bless my soul, what next! Well, well, you are a 
pert little maid, but I must try to be more agreeable.” 

Posy eyed her reflectively. 

“I dare say,” she murmured, “that I should be won- 
nerful peevish too, if I was very, very old.” 

Quinney, against Susan’s wishes and protests, in- 
sisted that the child should be brought up “as a little 
princess.” She was given many so-called advantages. 
She was taught to play the piano indifferently well; she 
danced beautifully; she could chatter French, and was 
now struggling with German. 

“Spare no expense,” said Quinney magnificently. 

IV 

His intimate relations with the growing girl remained 
constant. He would make the same remarks, pinch her 
blooming cheeks, pat her head, and kiss her smooth 
forehead. 

“How’s my pet this morning?” 

“Quite all right, daddy, thank you.” 

“Gettin’ on nicely with your lessons?” 

“Oh yes.” 

Once, when she was five years old, he had soundly 
smacked her. The sprite had discovered the efficacy of 
tears as a solvent of difficulties. Whenever her little 
will was crossed she howled. She howled as if she 
enjoyed it, and her father was shrewd enough to know 
this. One morning he caught her up, laid her across 
his knee, and spanked her till his hand ached. Next 

165 


Quinneys’ 

day Posy smiled very sweetly at him, and said re- 
proachfully : 

“Daddy pank a Posy too hard.” 

But she stopped howling. 

He was well pleased when she began to make friends 
with people like the Honeybuns. Honeybun was an 
ubiquitous Socialist who slept at Clapham. Like Quin- 
ney, he had soared. The two men had nothing in com- 
mon except this, but it was a bond between them. Mrs. 
Honeybun had been a governess in the family of a 
nobleman. She, too, had soared into an empyrean of 
advanced thinkers and workers. Familiarity with the 
titled classes had bred contempt for them. In and out 
of season she denounced the luxury and indolence of an 
effete aristocracy. Her own household was managed 
abominably. She preached and practised the virtues of 
an Edenic diet. Butcher’s meat was spoken of scath- 
ingly as the source of most physical and moral infirmi- 
ties. Apart from this prejudice against flesh-pots and 
aristocrats, she was a kindly woman, over-zealous as a 
reformer, displaying a too tempestuous petticoat, but 
burning with ardour to ameliorate the condition of the 
poor and oppressed. 

She exercised an enormous influence over Posy. 

And it is not easy to analyze this influence, which, 
however well meant, was not entirely for good. Mrs. 
Honeybun was clever enough to admit that there can be 
no great gain without an appreciable loss. The only 
thing that mattered was the satisfaction of being able 
to affirm that the gain outweighed the loss. Her fav- 
ourite hobby, which she rode mercilessly, was the neces- 
sity of Self-expression, the revealing of the Ego, the 
essential Spirit loosed from the bondage of the flesh. 

1 66 


Posy 

Unhappily, to understand the Honeybun philosophy, 
a mosaic of all creeds, it became necessary to master the 
“patter.” The word is perhaps offensive, but it de- 
scribes exactly the amazing jargon habitually in the 
mouths of the exponents of the New Revelation. It is 
rather dangerous, for example, to tell a young girl 
adored by her parents that she must begin by loving 
Herself. Properly assimilated, the injunction is So- 
cratic. Posy accepted it literally. Mrs. Honeybun, of 
course, explained what she meant, but at such length, 
with such divagations and irrelevancies, that Posy soon 
became bored. She told herself that Ethel’s mother 
was a dear, an understanding person, tremendously 
clever and modern, a twen-center! She could obey this 
kind and fluent teacher with hearty goodwill. It was so 
delightfully easy to begin with loving one’s Ego. 

Susan, it may be imagined, heard too much and too 
often of the Honeybuns; and she smiled when she dis- 
covered that the meals were “skimpy.” Posy had a 
healthy appetite not to be satisfied with nut cutlets or 
vegetable pie badly cooked and served at odd hours. 
No servant stayed long with the Honeybuns, because 
the remains of cold “vegy” pie were expected to be con- 
sumed at “elevenses.” Susan commented slily upon 
this. 

“Your friend, Mrs. Honeybun, seemingly, manages 
everything and everybody except her own house and 
her own servants.” 

To this Posy fervently replied : 

“The spiritual food in that house is simply wonder- 
ful !” 

Before many weeks had passed Susan was given an 
opportunity of testing the truth of this statement. Mrs. 

1 67 


Quinneys’ 

Biddlecombe invited Posy to spend a fortnight in Mel- 
chester — a precious fortnight out of the midsummer 
holidays. Ethel, some twenty-four hours later, en- 
treated her friend to join the Honeybun family at 
Ramsgate. Much to Susan’s dismay, Posy announced 
her intention of going to Ramsgate. 

“It’s deadly dull at Melchester, mummie, and just 
think what a privilege it is, what an opportunity to 
spend a fortnight with Ethel’s mother.” 

To her astonishment, Ethel’s mother placed a differ- 
ent interpretation upon the opportunity. 

“Of course, you will go to your grandmother, and I 
shall expect you to be charming to the old lady. In 
the nature of things, you can’t pay her many more 
visits. Make this one a fragrant and imperishable 
memory. Express what is your true self by your de- 
votion to an aged and apparently irritable grandmother.” 

Posy obeyed, with a result which had special bearing 
on events duly to be chronicled. Mrs. Biddlecombe, 
captivated by the sweetness and dutifulness of one 
whom she had hitherto regarded as a spoiled child, 
altered her will, leaving everything she possessed to 
Posy. Susan, she was aware, would be adequately pro- 
vided for. Perhaps it tickled an elementary sense of 
humour to make Posy independent of a too autocratic 
father. 


168 


CHAPTER XIII 


RUCTIONS 

I 

I F this veracious chronicle were to be considered as a 
novel written for a purpose, or even what critics 
term “a serious contribution to contemporary literature,” 
it might be necessary to write at greater length con- 
cerning the Honeybun philosophy. Enough, however, 
has been said to indicate the startling — startling, that is 
to say, to a young mind — contrast between the Quinney 
practices and the Honeybun precepts. Substantial 
meals, admirably cooked, were eaten at regular hours in 
Soho Square, and the table talk was as material as 
the roast and boiled. Quinney, before his young daugh- 
ter, exulted honestly in his hard-won success. The 
gospel of work was preached in both houses — too in- 
sistently, perhaps — but an Atlantic roared between them. 

For some months Posy was shrewd enough to digest 
the Honeybun teaching in silence. She prattled away to 
her mother, well aware that her girlish confidence would 
not be repeated to her father. Susan, indeed, served as 
a lay figure upon which she could drape new ideas and 
confections. Susan was a born listener. In Lavender 
Gardens the art of talking was practised by every mem- 
ber of the family simultaneously. Nobody listened, 
except Posy, who hoped that the day would soon come 
when she might be considered worthy to join the mag- 

169 


Quinneys’ 

nificent chorus. For the moment her mind was ex- 
panding. Under her father’s tutelage, she was acquir- 
ing a knowledge of beautiful things, masterpieces of 
handicraft; in Lavender Gardens, where no lavender 
grew, beautiful ideas, Utopian schemes for the regenera- 
tion of all womankind, were poured unstintingly into 
her brain-cells. 

So far, so good! 

Those of us who clamour for results, who yearn to 
tabulate and classify inevitable consequences, will have 
prepared themselves for ructions. Quinney was a 
fighter, a fighter for his own hand. The Honeybuns 
fought quite as aggressively on behalf of others. It is 
a nice point for moralists to consider whether or not a 
woman like Mrs. Honeybun is justified in filling the 
mind of a young girl with more or less disturbing 
theories, thinly disguised as cardinal principles, which 
must sooner or later clash seriously with home teaching. 
Mrs. Honeybun had no qualms on the subject, being 
too ardent a propagandist to consider effects when 
causes were so dear to her. In her small hall, thick 
with dust from the feet of many pilgrims, hung a bril- 
liantly illuminated text, purple and gold upon vellum: 

“Let There Be Light!” 

She appropriated enthusiastically any text out of the 
New Testament which could serve her purpose. Texts 
from the same source, which might be used against that 
purpose, were triumphantly capped by convincing quo- 
tations from the Veda, or the Koran, or the writings 
of Confucius. The accomplished lady was armed cap- 
a-pie with the coagulated wisdom of the ages. 

170 


Ructions 


Posy’s first encounter with her father took place, by 
the luck of things, at a moment when the little man 
had just concluded a more than usually successful deal 
with a millionaire who collected things he did not un- 
derstand. All big dealers have exceptional days and 
weeks when Fortune comes to them with both hands 
full. A clean sweep of many “gems” had been accom- 
plished — what Quinney called a “mop up.” His mind 
naturally was concentrated upon filling the gaps in the 
sanctuary with other gems of even purer ray serene. 
Posy confided to Ethel that at such moments her daddy 
“swanked.” The temptation to make a swanker “sit up” 
under the process described in Lavender Gardens as 
“seeing things in their true proportion” was irresistible 
to a young and ardent acolyte. Posy conceived it to 
be her duty, her mission, to lead her parents to the 
light. Admittedly, they wallowed in outer darkness. 

She tackled her father at breakfast, which, as a rule, 
he gobbled up in silence, thinking of the day’s work 
ahead. A wiser than she would have selected the post- 
prandial hour, when Nicotina clouds the air of con- 
troversy with beneficent and soothing vapours. Quin- 
ney had mentioned curtly that he was going to attend 
a sale at Christopher’s. Whereupon Posy threw this 
bomb : 

“Daddy dear, when are you going to retire from active 
business ?” 

Quinney stared at his daughter. Her intelligent eyes 
were sparkling; in her delicately-cut nostrils titillated 
the dust of battle. 

“Retire from — business ?” 

“Haven’t you made enough?” 

Susan looked frightened, but she had anticipated a 

171 


Quinneys’ 

conflict between two strong wills, and was acutely sen- 
sible of her own impotence to prevent it. 

“Ho! Now, what do you call enough, my girl?” 

Posy was prepared to answer this. She riposted 
swiftly : 

“Haven’t we enough to live on decently, and some- 
thing to spare for others?” 

“We?” His voice took a sharper inflection. “How 
much have you laid by, missie?” 

The sharpness and veiled impatience of her tone 
matched his as she answered: 

“You know what I mean.” 

“I don’t. What I’ve made is mine — my very own. 
I can do what I like with it.” 

“Oh, father!” 

“Oh, father!” He mimicked her cleverly. “Do you 
have the sauce to sit there and tell me, your father, 
that what I’ve made isn’t mine?” 

Posy quoted Mrs. Honeybun with overwhelming 
effect. 

“You are a trustee for what you hold, accountable 
for every penny.” 

“Accountable — to you ?” 

He leaned forward, forgetting his bacon, which he 
liked frizzlingly hot. 

“Accountable to Society and God.” 

“Ho! Then suppose you leave me, my young chick, 
to account in my own way to Society and God?” 

Posy blushed. Let us not label her rashly as a prig. 
The nymph Echo must have repeated silly remarks in 
her time. Posy said slowly, speaking with conviction : 

“I am part of Society, and I am part of what we call, 
for want of a better word, God.” 

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Ructions 


Susan murmured warningly: 

“That will do, Posy/* 

“No, it won’t!” shouted Quinney. “We’ll have this 
out here and now. What d’ye mean? What the devil 
d’ye mean? Are you dotty? Why do you spring this 
on me? What’s the game? ’Ave you been a-listenin’ to 
blasphemous agitators a-spoutin’ rubbish in ’Yde Park?” 

“No.” 

“Then where does she get it from?” He appealed 
to Susan with frantic gestures. “You hear her, mother. 
Where does she get this from? Answer me!” 

“Such talk is in the air, Joe,” Susan replied feebly. 
Explosions lacerated her ears. She had come to place 
an inordinate value upon peace and quiet. 

“In the air! By Gum! she’s been breathing the 
wrong air.” Inspiration gripped and shook him. “Gosh ! 
You got this from that dirty Socialist, Honeybun. 
Don’t deny it! These are his notions. But I never 
thought he’d poison your young mind with ’em.” 

Posy said with dignity: 

“Mr. Honeybun is the best man I know. He prac- 
tices what he preaches; he lives in and for others. He 
uses his talents, regardless of his own comfort and 
worldly prosperity, to ameliorate the lot of the poor 
and oppressed.” 

Echo again. 

“Poor and oppressed ! Ameliorate ! What a talker ! 
Now, look ye here, young Posy, I’m going to deal 
squarely by you. I’m square to the four winds of 
Heaven, I am! You and I have got to understand 
each other — see? You’re as green as the grass, but 
you do ’ave some of my brains. I ain’t a-goin’ to 
argue with you for one minute. Don’t think it! I’ve 

173 


Quinneys’ 

forgotten more than you ever knew. Talk is the cheap- 
est thing in London, but knaves like Honeybun buy 
fools with it. Don’t you toss your head ! You’ve made 
your pore dear mother cry, and you’ve taken away 
father’s appetite. A nice morning’s work. Now, listen ! 
No more Honeybunning ! You hear me?” 

“Everybody in the house can hear you.” 

“More sauce! You stand up, miss!” 

They rose together, confronting each other. Quin- 
ney’s scrubby red hair was on end with rage; Posy’s 
small bosom heaved tumultuously. Of late the girl had 
taken to the wearing of cheap beads and blouses cut 
low in the neck. Ethel had lamentable taste, but, ac- 
cording to her mother, it was expedient that maidens 
should work out their own salvation in such matters 
without parental interference. Quinney scowled at the 
beads and the white, rounded neck. 

“Take off that rubbish!” 

“Ethel gave them to me.” 

“Take ’em off quick! Mother, you see to it that she 
wears respectable collars!” 

Posy removed two strings of large amethystine beads. 
Quinney took them and hurled them into the fireplace. 
Tears rolled down Posy’s blooming cheeks. She was 
unaccustomed to violence — a primitive weapon not to be 
despised by modern man. 

“Them beads,” said Quinney, who reverted to the dic- 
tion of his youth when excited, “is beastly — sinfully 
beastly! They stand for all that I despise; they stand 
for the cheap, trashy talk which you’ve been defilin’ 
your mind with. What you need is a good spankin’. 
Now, mother, I leave Miss Impudence with you. Mark 
well what I say. No more Honeybunning!” 

174 


Ructions 


ii 

It is significant that Quinney neglected his business 
that memorable morning in the interests of a child who 
was beginning to believe that she occupied a back seat 
in her father’s mind. After leaving the dining-room, 
he clapped on his hat, and betook himself straightway 
to St. James’s Square. There was only one man in 
all London to whom he could go for honest advice, and 
fortunately he happened to be in town for the season. 

Lord Mel received him graciously. 

Quinney stated his case quietly. During the course 
of the narrative Lord Mel smiled more than once, but 
his sympathies were entirely with the father, for he had 
endured, not too patiently, somewhat similar scenes with 
his own daughters. Moreover, he hated Honeybun, 
whom he had denounced in the Upper Chamber as a mis- 
chievous and unscrupulous demagogue. 

Quinney ended upon a high note of interrogation: 

“What shall I do with her, my lord?” 

Lord Mel considered the question, trying to stand up- 
right in the shoes of his former tenant. It is a hopeful 
sign of the times that such magnates do descend from 
their pedestals, and attempt, with a certain measure of 
success, to see eye to eye with the groundlings. 

“I prescribe a change of diet, my dear fellow. We 
must both face the disconcerting fact that girls to-day 
need special treatment. Mrs. Honeybun is one of the 
Shrieking Sisterhood. I have heard her shriek — she 
does it effectively. Noise appeals to the very young. I 
suggest removing Posy from Orchard Street, and send- 
ing her to a carefully conducted boarding school, where 
plenty of fresh air and exercise will soon blow these 

175 


Quinneys’ 

ideas out of her pretty head. There are dozens of such 
schools scattered along our south coast.” 

“Send her away from me and her mother?” 

“Drastic, I admit, but you have put it admirably. ‘No 
more Honeybunning !’ Keep her in London, and she 
may Honeybun on the sly. Will you entrust this little 
matter of finding a suitable school to me?” 

“Your lordship is a real friend.” 

“I will speak to my lady.” 

“Expense don’t matter,” said Quinney earnestly. “I 
want my daughter to have the best, because, my lord, 
as a young feller, I had the worst. No education at all ! 
Posy’s a wonderful talker! She’d have downed me 
this morning if I’d let her. She talks like — like ” 

“Like Honeybun, eh?” 

“If I wasn’t sittin’ in your lordship’s library, I should 
damn that dirty dog!” 

“Such fellows thrive on abuse. That is their weapon. 
We must use others — ridicule, for example. How old is 
your girl?” 

“Nearly sixteen.” 

“Good! You have nipped a cankered bud in time. 
You shall hear from me within twenty-four hours. Let 
me show you an interesting bit of Crown Derby bisque.” 
He paused, and added derisively : “You know, Quinney, 
there are moments when my things appeal to me tremen- 
dously. Persons are disappointing, but every day I dis- 
cover fresh beauties in my china cabinets.” 

“Same here,” said Quinney, with enthusiasm. 

Ill 

Accordingly Posy was despatched to a boarding 
school at Bexhill-on-Sea, kept by two gentlewomen of 
176 


Ructions 


the right sort, sensible, up-to-date, highly-trained teach- 
ers, who ruled well and wisely over some twenty girls, 
the daughters, for the most part, of hard-working, pro- 
fessional men. Here we will leave Posy in good com- 
pany. She was feeling sore and humiliated after an un- 
conditional surrender; but her sense of impotence soon 
passed away. She loved her whimsical father and de- 
sired to please him, although she writhed — as he had 
writhed — under the heel of parental discipline. She 
began to study with assiduity, and was highly com- 
mended. 

IV 

Meanwhile, Susan and Quinney were left alone for 
the first time since Posy’s birth. Susan rejoiced in se- 
cret. She had Joe to herself. Posy was in the habit of 
dusting the more valuable bits of china in the sanctuary, 
and cleaning the old glass. Susan undertook these small 
duties, and pottered in and out of the sanctuary at 
all hours. Quinney threw crumbs of talk to her, but 
he refused emphatically her timid request to serve him 
once more as a saleswoman. At his wish, she rarely 
entered the shop below. James Miggott was in charge 
of that. Quinney was engrossed with the buying and 
selling of “stuff”; he attended to an immense corre- 
spondence, writing all his letters in the sanctuary, where 
he could pause from his labours to suck fresh energy 
from the contemplation of his treasures. The prices he 
paid for some of them terrified Susan, although she 
knew that he made few mistakes and immense profits. 
She remarked that his reluctance to part with the finest 
specimens had become almost a monomania. There was 
a lacquer cabinet, in particular, standing upon a richly 

177 


Quinneys’ 

gilded Charles the Second stand. Quinney had paid 
eight hundred pounds for it, and he had been offered 
a thousand guineas within six months. He confessed 
to Susan that he couldn’t live without it. The cabinet 
was flanked by an incised lacquer screen, a miracle of 
Chinese workmanship. He refused a handsome profit on 
that. Susan asked herself : 

“Does he worship these false gods? Would he miss 
that cabinet more than he would miss me?” 

She noticed, too, that he was overworked. During 
his many absences from home letters would accumu- 
late. To answer them he rose earlier and went to bed 
later, deaf to her remonstrance. He promised to engage 
a typist and stenographer — some day. 

Nevertheless, this was a pleasant time, but it lasted 
only a few months. Mrs. Biddlecombe took to her bed 
again. Susan was summoned to Melchester. The old 
lady was really dying, but she took her time about it. 
Susan ministered to her till the end. 

After the funeral, when she returned to Soho Square, 
a surprise awaited her. Quinney had fulfilled his prom- 
ise. In the sanctuary, at a beautiful Carlton desk, sat 
Miss Mabel Dredge, a young and attractive woman, the 
typist and stenographer. Poor Susan experienced tear- 
ing pangs of jealousy when she beheld her, but Quin- 
ney’s treatment of the stranger was reassuring. Obvi- 
ously, he regarded Miss Dredge as a machine. 

And his unaffected delight over Susan’s return home 
was positively rejuvenating. 


i 7 8 


CHAPTER XIV 


JAMES MIGGOTT 

I 

I N common with other great men who have achieved 
success, Quinney was endowed with a Napoleonic 
faculty of picking the right men to serve him. Having 
done so, he treated them generously, so that they re- 
mained in his service, loath to risk a change for the 
worse. He paid good wages, and was complaisant in 
the matter of holidays. 

James Miggott had been his most fortunate discovery. 
James was “brainy” (we quote Quinney), ambitious, 
healthy, and an artist in his line: the repairing of valu- 
able old furniture. Also he was good-looking, which 
counted with his employer. A few weeks after joining 
the establishment it had been arranged that he should 
sleep in a comfortable room in the basement, and take 
his meals at a restaurant in Old Compton Street. Dur- 
ing his provincial circuits Quinney liked to know that a 
man was in charge of the house at night. James’s habits, 
apparently, were as regular as his features. 

By this time he had come to be regarded as foreman. 
Bit by bit he had won Quinney’s entire confidence. The 
master talked to the man more freely than he talked to 
Susan about everything connected with his business. 
James listened attentively, made occasionally some 
happy suggestion, and betrayed no signs of a swollen 

179 


Quinneys’ 

head. A natural inflation might have been ex- 
pected. Quinney’s eyes failed to detect it. Moreover, 
Susan liked him, and respected him. He attended Di- 
vine service on Sundays; he ate and drank in modera- 
tion; he was scrupulously neat in appearance; he had 
received a sound education, and expressed himself well 
in good English. Truly a paragon! 

Quinney had secured Miss Mabel Dredge after his 
own fashion. Hitherto his typewriting had been done 
by a firm which employed a score of typists. The head 
of that firm happened to be a lady of great intelligence 
and energy, the widow of a stockbroker who had died 
bankrupt. Quinney knew about her, liked and admired 
her, and told her so in his whimsical way. She liked 
and respected Quinney. Also, by an odd coincidence, 
Mrs. Frankland had begun her struggle for existence in 
London at the time when Quinney left Melchester. They 
had compared notes; each had undergone thwackings. 
When Mrs. Frankland began to make money she spent 
most of it at Quinney’s. Amongst other bits, she had 
bought a spinet — cheap. Accordingly, when Quinney 
entreated her to find a competent young woman, she 
generously offered him the pick of her establishment. 

Mabel Dredge went with alacrity, glad to escape from 
a small table in a large room, not too well ventilated. 
She intended, from the first, to give satisfaction, to 
“hold down” the new job. She was tall and dark, with 
a clear, colourless skin, and a rather full-lipped mouth, 
which indicated appreciation of the good things in life. 
Mrs. Frankland had said to her: 

“You will earn a bigger salary, Mabel, and Mr. Quin- 
ney won’t make love to you.” 

Mabel Dredge smiled pensively. She could take care 
180 


James Miggott 

of herself, and she had no reason to suppose that she 
was susceptible. Men had made love to her, but they 
were the wrong men. She had refused kind invitations 
to lunch or dine at smart restaurants. When she walked 
home after the day’s work she encountered smiles upon 
the faces of well-dressed loafers. No answering smile 
on her lips encouraged these dear-stalkers to address 
her. But, deep down in her heart, was a joyous and 
thrilling conviction that she was desirable. The male 
passers-by who did not smile aroused unhappy qualms. 
Was she losing her looks? Was she growing old? 
Could it be possible that she might die an old maid? 

Upon the morning when she appeared in Soho Square 
Quinney sent for James. He said abruptly: 

“James Miggott will show you round. If you want 
to know anything, go to him. Don’t ask me foolish ques- 
tions, because that makes me lose my hair; and I ain’t 
got any to lose that way. See ?” 

“Certainly, sir.” 

“Dessay he’ll tell you where you can get a plate of 
roast beef in the middle of the day, between one and 
two. You have an hour off then. What did Mrs. Frank- 
land allow you?” 

“Forty minutes.” 

“Just so. You’ll find me easy to get along with, if 
you do your duty. James will tell you that I’m a remark- 
able man. I call him James, and I shall call you Mabel. 
It saves time, and time’s money. You can scoot off 
with James.” 

The pair disappeared. Quinney’s eyes twinkled. He 
was thinking of Susan, and recalling that memorable 
afternoon when he kissed her for the first time behind 
the parlour-door in Laburnum Row. 

181 


Quinneys’ 


ii 

We have mentioned James Miggott’s almost magical 
powers of transforming eighteenth-century spinets into 
desks and dressing-tables. These useful and ornamental 
pieces of furniture were sold as converted spinets, and 
they commanded a handsome price because the trans- 
formation was achieved with such consummate art. 
Even experts were at a loss to point out the difference 
between what was originally old and what had been 
added. James had access to Quinney’s collection of 
mahogany — the broken chairs, tables, beds, doors, and 
bureaux which the little man had bought for a song of 
sixpence before mahogany leapt again into fashion. 
The collection had begun in Melchester, and Quinney 
was always adding to it. In it might be found exquis- 
itely carved splats and rails and ball-and-claw legs, many 
of them by the hand of the great craftsmen — Chippen- 
dale, Sheraton, Hepplewhite, and Adam. One cellar and 
two attics were full of these interesting relics. 

Shortly after James’s appearance in Soho Square 
Quinney succumbed to the temptation of doctoring 
“cripples,” which besets most honest dealers in antique 
furniture. He had, as we know, pledged himself not 
to sell faked specimens of china or faked old oak, except 
as such. And he had stuck to the strict letter of this 
promise, thereby securing many customers, and winning 
their confidence. It had paid him to be honest. With 
sorrowful reluctance we must give some account of his 
divagations from the straight and narrow way. 

The temptation assailed Quinney with especial viru- 
lence, because “cripples” of high degree appealed to 
182 


James Miggott 

him quite as strongly as, let us say, a desperately in- 
jured sprig of nobility, battered to bits in a motor ac- 
cident, may appeal to the skill and patience of a famous 
surgeon. When Quinney found a genuine Chippendale 
chair in articulo mortis, he could sit down and weep be- 
side it. To restore it to health and beauty became a 
labour of love, almost a duty. He had not, of course, 
the technical skill for such work; and he had not found 
any cabinet-maker who was absolutely the equal of the 
Minihy man till he discovered James Miggott. The 
first important task assigned to James was the mending 
of an elaborately carved Chippendale settee, a museum 
piece. James threw his heart and his head into the 
job; and, within the year, that settee was sold at 
Christopher’s, after examination by experts, as an un- 
touched and perfect specimen. Quinney was no party to 
this fraud, for the settee had never belonged to him, but 
it opened his eyes to the possibilities of patching “crip- 
ples.” And every week he was being offered these 
“cripples.” The finest specimens, by the best crafts- 
men, are rare ; the full sets of eight incomparable chairs, 
for instance, come but seldom into the open market. 
But the “cripples” may be found in any cottage in the 
kingdom, fallen from the high estate of some stately 
saloon to the attic of a servant. 

Tom Tamlin was one of the very few who saw the 
Chippendale settee after James had restored it. Within 
a few days he attempted to lure the young man from 
Soho Square, but James refused an offer of a larger 
salary, and elected to stay with Quinney. Possibly he 
mistrusted Tamlin, whose general appearance was far 
from prepossessing. Tamlin, however, was not easily 

183 


Quinneys’ 

baffled. He seized an early opportunity of speaking 
privately to Quinney. 

“Joe,” he said, “this young feller is the goods. He 
can do the trick.” 

“Do what trick?” 

Tamlin winked. 

“Any trick, I take it, known to our trade. The very 
finest faker of old furniture I ever come across. Now, 
as between man and man, are you going to make a right 
and proper use of him?” 

“What d’ye mean, Tom?” 

“Tchah! You know well enough what I mean. Why 
beat about the bush with an old friend? Are you going 
to turn this young man loose amongst that old stuff 
you’ve collected?” 

Quinney laughed, shaking his head. 

“Am I going to let James Miggott fake up all that old 
stuff? No, by Gum! No!” 

“But, damn it! Why not?” 

“Several reasons. One’ll do. I’ve sworn solemn not 
to sell fakes unless they’re labelled as such.” 

“Of all the silly rot ” 

“There it is.” 

Tamlin went away, but he returned next day, and 
asked for a glass of brown sherry. Quinney had one, 
too. 

“I’ve a proposition to make,” said Tamlin. “You’ve 
got a small gold mine in this Miggott, but you don’t 
mean to work him properly. Well, let me do it.” 

“How?” 

“Suppose I send you ‘cripples’ to be mended. Any 
objections to that?” 

“None.” 

184 


James Miggott 

‘This young Miggott mends 'em, and puts in his best 
licks on ’em too. Then you send ’em back to me.” 

“That all?” 

Tamlin winked. 

“Do you want to know any more? Is it your business 
to inquire what becomes of the stuff after you’ve doc- 
tored it? And, mind you, I shall pay high for the doc- 
torin’. You leave that to me. You won’t be disap- 
pointed with my cheques.” 

Let it be remembered, although we hold no brief for 
Quinney, that this subtle temptation assailed him shortly 
after his bludgeonings, when he was tingling with impa- 
tience to “get even” with the Londoners who had 
“downed” him. 

In fine, he accepted Tamlin’s offer. 

Quinney has since confessed that at first he was very 
uneasy, honesty having become a pleasant and profitable 
habit. There were moments when he envied moral idiots 
like Tamlin, stout, smiling, red- faced sinners, who posi- 
tively wallowed and gloried in sinfulness. Tamlin pur- 
sued pleasure upon any and every path. He went rac- 
ing, attended football matches, was a patron of the 
Drama and the Ring, ate and drank immoderately, made 
no pretence of being faithful to Mrs. Tamlin, or honest 
with the majority of his customers. His amazing knowl- 
edge of Oriental porcelain had given him an international 
reputation. He never attempted to deceive the experts, 
and, in consequence, was quoted as a high authority in 
such papers as The Collector and Curios. He knew ex- 
actly what his customers needed, and was the cleverest 
salesman in the kingdom. Less successful dealers af- 
firmed that the devil took especial care of Tom Tamlin. 

185 


Quinneys’ 

hi 

Quinney had no reason to complain of Tamlin’s 
cheques. He knew that his old friend was being scrupu- 
lously square, and sharing big profits with him. Tamlin 
had customers from the Argentine, from the Brazils, 
from all parts of the earth where fortunes are made 
and spent swiftly. The “cripples” disappeared mysteri- 
ously, and were never heard of again. By this time 
Tamlin had moved to his famous premises in Bond 
Street. He had not achieved the position of Mr. Lark, 
because he lacked that great man’s education and polish, 
but he was quite the equal of Mr. Bundy. 

It is important to mention that Tamlin sent very 
few cripples to Soho Square. Nor were they delivered 
by his vans. They arrived unexpectedly from provincial 
towns; they were invariably authentic specimens, the 
finest “stuff.” No understrapper beheld them. James 
carried them tenderly to his operating theatre, whence 
they emerged pale of complexion, but sound in limb. 
Daily massage followed, innumerable rubbings. Then 
Tamlin would drop in, and nudge Quinney, and 
chuckle. The two dealers would pull out their glasses 
and examine the patient with painstaking zeal. James 
would watch them with a slightly derisive smile upon 
his handsome face. At the end of his three years’ en- 
gagement Quinney raised his salary to three pounds a 
week. The little man expected an extravagant expres- 
sion of gratitude, but he didn’t get it. At times James’s 
smile puzzled him. 

IV 

Posy remained at Bexhill-on-Sea till she was eighteen. 
Her friendship for the Honeybuns had been slowly ex- 
186 


James Miggott 

tinguished. Mrs. Honeybun, who mortified everything 
in her thin body except pride, refused peremptorily to 
see Posy against the expressed wish of her father. Posy 
wrote to Ethel long screeds answered with enthusiasm 
at first, and then perfunctorily. At the end of the year 
the girls drifted apart. 

Posy, however, made other friends. When she came 
home for her first holidays, Quinney and Susan con- 
spired together to make things pleasant for her. She 
had plenty of pocket money. Susan and she went to 
many plays, many concerts, all the good shows. Quin- 
ney rubbed his hands and chuckled, but he declined to 
accompany them. 

The two years of school passed with astonishing 
swiftness; and the improvement in Posy quickened a 
lively gratitude in Quinney to Lord Mel. She developed 
into a charming young woman, irresponsible, as yet, but 
a joyous creature, easy to please, and be pleased. Quin- 
ney was delighted with her. He told her solemnly: 

“My poppet, you're a perfect lady; yes, you are.” 

Posy went into peals of laughter. 

“Daddy, how funny you are!” 

This talk took place upon the day that Posy said 
good-bye to her school-fellows, and returned home as 
a more or less finished product of the boarding-school 
system. 

“Funny? Me! I don't feel funny, my pretty, when 
I look at you. I feel proud. One way and t'other I sup- 
pose you’ve cost me nigh upon four thousand pounds!” 

“Daddy dear! Not as much as that, surely?” 

Quinney cocked his head at a sharp angle, while he 
computed certain sums. 

“I figure it out in this way,” he said slowly. “In hard 

187 


Quinneys’ 

cash you stand me in about fifteen hundred spread over 
the last ten years. Now, if I’d stuffed that amount into 
Waterford glass, I could have cleaned up five thousand 
at least. See?” 

“I see,” said Posy, and laughed again. 

“The question now is,” continued Quinney, absorbed 
in admiration of her delicate colouring, “what the ’ell 
am I going to do with such a fancy piece?” 

“Father!” exclaimed Susan. “Do please try to re- 
member that you’re not talking to Mr. Tamlin.” 

“When I feel strongly,” replied Quinney simply, “I 
just have to use strong language. Posy has come home 
to what?” 

“She’s come home, Joe. That’s enough. Why bother 
about anything else?” 

“Because I’m the bothering sort, old dear — that’s why. 
I look ahead. I count my chickens before they’re 
hatched.” 

Susan said slily: 

“Yes, you made sure that this chicken was going to 
be hatched a boy.” 

The three laughed. It was a pleasant moment of 
compensation for long years of anxiety and toil. Each 
had worked for it. Posy had submitted, not without 
kickings and prickings, to strict discipline; Quinney, 
from the child’s birth, had determined that the stream 
must rise higher than its source ; Susan, serenely hopeful 
about the future, had worried unceasingly over the pres- 
ent, concerned about petty ailments, the putting on and 
off of suitable underlinen, and so forth. 

“Don’t bother about me, daddy; I’m all right.” 

“By Gum, you are! That’s why I bother. In my 
experience it’s the right bits that get smashed!” 

1 88 


James Miggott 


V 

Perhaps nobody was more surprised at the change in 
Posy than James Miggott. Hitherto the young lady, 
home for the holidays, had ignored him, not purposely 
— she was too kind-hearted for that — but with a genuine 
unconsciousness of giving offence. He was part and 
parcel of what she least liked in her father’s house, 
the shop. Not for an instant was she ashamed of being 
the daughter of a dealer in antiques, who owned a shop; 
what exasperated her was the conviction that the shop 
owned him, that he had become the slave of his business. 
The Honeybuns had rubbed into her plastic mind that 
the unpardonable sin, the sin against the Holy Ghost, 
the root-cause of ruin to nations and individuals, began 
and ended with the lust of accumulating material things. 
Nothing moved Mrs. Honeybun to more fervent and 
eloquent speech than the text: “Lay not up treasures 
upon earth !” At Bexhill-on-Sea Posy had heard this 
same injunction upon the lips of a local Chrysostom, 
to whom she listened enthusiastically every Sunday morn- 
ing. The text had a personal application, because she 
never heard it, or a variant on it, without thinking of 
the sanctuary and her father’s “gems,” apostrophized by 
Susan as “sticks and stones.” Posy admired beautiful 
things, but if they were very costly she seemed to have 
a curious fear of them. Before she was born, Susan had 
experienced strongly the same fear of her Joe’s idols. 

She was, however, discreet enough to conceal this 
from her father. He took her to Christopher’s, where 
a miraculous piece of reticulated Kang He was on exhi- 
bition, prior to sale. It was an incense-box decorated 

189 


Quinneys’ 

with figures of the eight Immortals in brilliant enamels. 
Metaphorically, Quinney went down on his knees before 
it. Next day he told Posy that it had fetched seven 
thousand guineas ! He stared at her sharply, because she 
showed no enthusiasm. 

James Miggott beheld her as Aphrodite fresh from 
the sea. Poor Mabel Dredge appeared sallow beside her, 
tired and spent after a hot July. Posy glowed. She 
was not insensible to the homage of admiring glances, 
and James, by the luck of things, happened to be the 
first good-looking man with whom she was thrown into 
intimate contact. Propinquity! What follies are com- 
mitted in thy company ! 

She wondered why James’s handsome face and manly 
figure had never impressed her before. She spoke to 
Susan about him with nonchalant vivacity: 

“James is a power in this house.” 

“Yes, dear; your father thinks the world of him. 
He is a very good young man.” 

“Good ? Now what do you mean by that ?” 

“Gracious! I hope you haven’t inherited father’s 
trick of asking questions.” 

“Is James pious?” 

“Pious? He goes to church; he does his duty; he is 
to be trusted; he’s a hard worker, and from what your 
father tells me, a real artist.” 

“An artist ? Does he work for the love of his work ?” 

“I think he does.” 

Then and there Posy decided to cultivate James Mig- 
gott. He had excited the curiosity of an intelligent 
maiden. She found herself wondering what he did with 
himself when his work was done. Did he read? Had 
he any real friends? Was Miss Dredge a friend of his? 

190 


James Miggott 

What were his ambitions? The more she thought of 
him, the sorrier she became for him. Possibly he per- 
ceived this. Upon the rare occasions when they met, 
he was careful to assume a captivating air of melancholy, 
preserving conscientiously the right distance between 
them, scrupulously polite but somewhat indifferent to her 
advances, thereby piquing her to bolder efforts to bridge 
the distance. A woman of experience might have been 
justified in assuming that a man who could play so 
careful a game was no tyro at it. 

This preliminary sparring lasted nearly two months. 


CHAPTER XV 


AT WEYMOUTH 

I 

O NLY lookers-on at the human comedy can be con- 
sistently philosophical. The drama is too excit- 
ing, too distracting to the players. When a man is chas- 
ing his hat along a gusty thoroughfare, he takes little 
heed of the headgear of others. Till now Posy’s outlook 
had been girlishly critical. Her ideas and ideals were 
coloured or discoloured by the persons with whom she 
came in contact, but she was modest and sensible enough 
to realize that her experience of the big things of life 
was negligible. She had never suffered sharp pain either 
of mind or body. The death of her grandmother af- 
fected her subjectively. A familiar figure had been re- 
moved from her small circle. A landmark had vanished 
for ever. It was awful to reflect that her own mother 
might have been taken. She remembered an incident at 
school, the summoning of a girl about her own age, a 
chum, to the presence of the headmistress. The girl, 
to the wonder of all, had not returned to the class-room, 
but Posy saw her an hour later putting her things to- 
gether for a long journey. The girl’s face had changed 
terribly. In answer to the first eager question, she said, 
drearily : “My mother is dead.” Posy burst into tears ; 
the girl’s eyes were dry. Then Posy stammered out: 
“Did you love her very much?” and the other laughed, 
192 


At Weymouth 

actually laughed, as she replied : “Love her ? She was all I 
had in the world !” This glimpse of a grief beyond tears 
was an unique experience, something which transcended 
imagination, and something, therefore, not fully ab- 
sorbed. For many nights Posy was haunted by the 
vision of that white, drawn face, with its hungry, de- 
spairing expression ; then it slowly faded away. By this 
time, also, she had almost forgotten the Honeybun stories 
of the submerged tenth. Bexhill breezes had blown them 
out of her mind. Somewhere in festering slums and 
alleys, men and women and children were fighting des- 
perately against disease, poverty, and vice. Teachers 
had pointed out, with kindly common sense, that it 
would be morbid and futile to allow the mind to dwell 
upon conditions which, for the moment, a schoolgirl was 
powerless to ameliorate. With relief, Posy had purged 
her thoughts of such horrors. 

And now her father raised the question — What was 
to be done with this fancy piece? 

Posy answered that question after her own fashion. 
The Chrysostom aforesaid — excellent, practical parson! 
— had indicated a task. Under his teaching and preach- 
ing Posy had returned gladly enough to the fold of 
the Church of England. She no longer thought of 
Omnipotence as a vague essence permeating the universe. 
The Deity had become personal. Chrysostom, however, 
was too sensible a man to fill the minds of schoolgirls 
with doctrinal problems. He preached practical Chris- 
tianity with sincerity and eloquence. The nail he ham- 
mered home into youthful pates was this : “Make the 
world a pleasanter place for others, and you will find 
it more pleasant for yourselves.” The girls at Posy's 
school indulged in mild chaff over this dictum. Sweet 

193 


Quinneys’ 

seventeen admonished blushing sixteen to “Be a sun- 
beam !” Another catchword in frequent use was : “Save 
a smile for mother!” 

Fired by the conviction that the sunbeam business 
paid handsome dividends, Posy returned to Soho Square. 
She intended to brighten the lives of everybody in the 
house, including the tweenie. That, for the moment, 
was to be her “job.” She described the process as 
“bingeing ’em up.” 

And the member of her father’s household who seemed 
to be most in need of “bingeing” happened to be James 
Miggott. 

II 

In August — she had left school for good at the end 
of the summer term — Posy and her mother went to 
Weymouth. Quinney did not accompany them. He 
said, jocularly, that he got all the change he needed 
travelling about the kingdom in search of “stuff.” Busi- 
ness being at a low ebb in August, he selected that month 
for a general stocktaking, balancing of accounts, and 
the planning of an active autumn campaign. Mabel 
Dredge remained with him, a most capable assistant ; 
James Miggott was told that he might spend three weeks 
wherever he pleased. 

It will never be known whether or not James knew 
that Susan and Posy were going to Weymouth. We 
do know that Posy met James on the pier, and was much 
struck by his gentlemanly appearance. It is possible that 
the young man planned this meeting; it is quite impossi- 
ble to infer as much from what passed between them. 
James raised a neat straw hat, and was strolling on, 
when Posy waved her parasol. 

194 


At Weymouth 

“Are you thinking of cutting me?” she asked, holding 
out her hand. “What an extraordinary coincidence 
your being here?” 

“Is it?” asked James quietly. “I have been to Wey- 
mouth before, have you?” 

“No; this is our first visit. Did father tell you we 
were coming?” 

“No.” He laughed derisively, as he continued, “Mr. 
Quinney does not talk to me about you. I can imagine 
that he might — er — object ” 

He paused significantly. 

“Object to what?” 

“To this. I know my place, Miss Quinney.” 

He was as humble as Uriah Heep, but more pre- 
possessing in appearance. The sun and wind had tanned 
his cheeks, his brown hair curled crisply beneath the 
brim of his smart hat. He wore white shoes and quiet 
grey flannels. 

“Now that you are here,” said Posy, “let us sit down 
and listen to the band. Mother is writing to father. 
She writes every day, dear thing! She will turn up 
presently.” 

Once more James hesitated, but he obeyed. The 
band played a popular waltz ; upon the beach below peo- 
ple were bathing; the sea displayed the many twink- 
ling smile as the breeze kissed the lips of the wavelets. 

“Jolly, isn’t it?” said Posy. 

“Very.” 

“But you don’t look jolly, Mr. Miggott. You never 
do look very jolly. And I have wondered — why.” 

She . looked straight into his eyes, smiling pleasantly, 
anxious to put him at ease, anxious also to peer be- 
neath an impassive surface, to find out “things” con- 

195 


Quinneys’ 

cerning a good young man, whose goodness, apparently, 
had not brought with it a very delirious happiness. 

“Shall I tell you?” he asked, in a voice that trembled 
oddly. “Shall I let myself go for once? Ought I?” 

Posy glanced the length of the pier. Her mother was 
not in sight. She might not appear for half an hour. 

“Yes; please tell me.” 

He told his tale so fluently that the uncharitable 
might hazard the conjecture that he had told it before, 
* perhaps to Mabel Dredge. By hinting at this we have 
somewhat prejudiced the effect on the reader, who must 
bear in mind that Posy was too innocent and young to 
entertain such suspicions. 

“I don’t look jolly, Miss Quinney, because I don’t 
feel jolly. Perhaps you think that a man ought to dis- 
guise his feelings when he’s with a charming young lady. 
Well, I can’t. I’m too honest. It was a shock just now 
meeting you, because you stand for everything I want 
and can’t get.” 

The inflections of his voice far more than the actual 
words challenged her interest. Obviously, he was ca- 
pable of feeling, and she had deemed him cold. He 
continued more calmly, subtly conveying to her the im- 
pression that he was suppressing his emotions on her 
account. 

“I am your father’s foreman, and I earn three pounds 
a week. Lark and Bundy, Tamlin, any of the big deal- 
ers would pay me five pounds a week, but I can’t leave 
Soho Square.” 

Posy said hastily: 

“I’m sure father couldn’t spare you.” 

“I am useful to him. I’m not such a fool as to under- 
rate my services. He is generous. He will raise my 
196 


At Weymouth 

salary, but I shall remain downstairs. I repeat, I know 
my place. I am fully aware that I ought not to be 
talking to you like this. Mr. Quinney would be angry.” 

“Really, that is absurd.” 

“Do you know your father as well as I know him?” 

She evaded his eyes. 

“Perhaps not, but there’s nothing of the snob about 
daddy; he never pretends to be better than he is. He 
rose from the ranks, and he’s proud of it. I’m proud of 
it. I admire men who rise. I have no use for slackers 
who owe everything to others. Why shouldn’t you rise 
higher than father? You are better educated and a 
greater artist.” 

“What! You have thought of me as an artist?” 

“I have been told that you are an artist. Father 
says so, and Mr. Tamlin. It interested me enormously. 
You love your work for your work’s sake. That is fine. 
And yet you tell me that you are unhappy, that it gives 
you a shock to meet me, because I stand for everything 
you want and can’t get. What do you want?” 

“Freedom for one thing.” 

“Mustn’t freedom be earned? I have been taught so. 
You are serving, I suppose, your apprenticeship. The 
work you love may be a small part of that, and the 
rest drudgery. I used to loathe playing scales, but I 
tried to be jolly.” 

“Your position is assured.” 

“If you’re the right sort, yours will be.” 

“I shall be jolly when it is. You ought to know all 
the truth, Miss Quinney, if my stupid affairs don’t bore 
you too utterly?” 

“Can’t you see how interested I am?” 

“You are divinely kind. I can’t express what your 

197 


Quinneys’ 

sympathy means to me. Well, you spoke of my rising. 
That’s just where the shoe pinches. I have not risen; 
I have fallen/’ 

“Fallen from — what?” 

“My people were gentlepeople.” 

“Oh!” 

She drew in her breath sharply. James could see 
that his last shaft had transfixed her. He was very 
clever, and he guessed exactly how she felt about gentle- 
people, using the word in its widest sense. Quinney’s 
money had made her a gentlewoman. 

“My father was an officer in the Army.” (It was 
true that James’s father had once held a second lieu- 
tenant’s commission in the Militia.) “My mother was 
the daughter of a West Country parson. They died 
when I was a boy. There was practically nothing for 
me. I was educated at a charitable institution. 
Charity apprenticed me to a cabinet-maker at Exeter. 
Charity nearly buried me — twice. I have known what 
it is, Miss Quinney, to be without food, and without 
money, and to wake morning after morning wishing 
that I had died in the night!” 


Ill 

This was the part of the tale which James told so 
fluently. Admittedly, that last long sentence smacked 
of rhetorical effect. It could hardly have been entirely 
impromptu. Nevertheless, it rolled Posy in the dust. 
She became horribly conscious of rushing in where 
angels might fear to tread. Indeed, that hackneyed 
quotation occurred to her. She ejaculated, “Oh!” for 
198 


At Weymouth 

the second time, and blushed piteously. James rose to 
his feet. He spoke politely: 

“I see that I have distressed you, and I am very 
sorry; but you asked me.” 

“I, too, am sorry,” said Posy earnestly, “I am most 
awfully sorry. I wish I could say the right thing, but I 
feel rather a fool.” 

“The right thing for me to say, Miss Quinney, is 
good-bye. I shall go to Lulworth this afternoon.” 

“But why should you go? I don’t understand. Are 
you going on our account?” 

“On my own.” 

Another transfixing shaft. Posy was too honest to 
misinterpret this calm Statement. Secretly she was 
thrilled by it; delicious shivers crept up and down her 
spine. For the first time she became supremely con- 
scious of her power over a man. At that moment she 
turned from a jolly girl into a woman. It touched her 
to fine issues. In a low, tremulous voice she faltered : 

“You know best.” 

James raised his hat and went. 

IV 

Half an hour later Susan had the story, with reserves, 
from Posy’s lips. Are we to blame the girl because 
she left out the climax? At any rate, her conscience re- 
mained clear. She could not betray a sacred confidence. 

Susan was not vastly interested, as a wiser mother 
might have been. She accepted James’s departure with 
a certain smug satisfaction which exasperated her 
daughter. She was sure that father would approve. 
Posy said sharply: 


199 


Quinneys’ 

“But, mummie, daddy couldn’t object to our being 
decently civil to Mr. Miggott?” 

“He might.” 

“But why — why?” 

“Father is so ambitious for you, child. Any galli- 
vanting about with his foreman ” 

“Gallivanting! Who spoke of gallivanting ? Mr. 
Miggott is a gentleman. You like him and respect him. 
So do I. The word ‘gallivanting’ sounds so house- 
maidy, so merry-go-roundy.” 

“Oh, well, my dear, I’m glad the young man has 
gone, that’s all.” 

The subject remained closed for the rest of the Wey- 
mouth visit. Mother and daughter returned to Lon- 
don a month later. James was at work downstairs. 
When Posy and he met, she could hardly believe that 
he was the same James who had sat beside her on the 
pier. His dignified salutation, “Good-afternoon, Miss 
Quinney!” seemed ludicrously inadequate, but what else 
could the poor fellow have said? Posy could find no 
answer to this insistent question, and yet she had ex- 
pected a different greeting. He had not offered to 
shake hands, nor had she. Ought she to have held out 
her hand first? Was he offended because she hadn’t? 
When she woke next morning she wondered whether 
James was wishing that he had died in the night. The 
determination to brighten his life, within reasonable 
limits, imposed itself upon her while she was dressing. 
More, it inspired her to choose a clean, lilac-coloured 
frock, which became her admirably. Putting up her 
hair she was careful to arrange it artistically, because 
an artist might look at it with deep-set, melancholy 
200 


At Weymouth 

eyes. If you had told her that she was romantic she 
would have been furious. 

At breakfast Quinney said briskly: 

“I’ve a job for you, my girl.” 

“Certainly, daddy.” 

“I’m going to turn over to you the dusting of my 
china, and the cleaning of the Waterford glass. You 
used to do it nicely before you went to boarding-school.” 

“I shall just love it.” 

Quinney was much gratified. Posy, he reflected, was 
his own dear daughter; no nonsense about her, no high- 
falutin airs and graces, first and last a perfect lady. 
He smacked his lips with satisfaction. 

“You must teach me values, daddy.” 

“By Gum, I will. You’ll learn, too, mighty quick. 
Did the girls at your school ever throw it up to you that 
you was a tradesman’s daughter?” 

“No, I told them that you were the honestest dealer 
in England.” 

“So I am, my pretty, the honestest in the world. It 
pays to be honest.” 

“That’s not why you’re honest?” 

“No, missie, it ain’t. I swore solemn never to sell 
fakes except as such the night you was born.” 

“What a funny time to choose!” 

Susan made a sign to him, but he went on: 

“Funny? Never could make out why people use that 
word in such a silly way. Funny? Your dear mother 
nearly died the night you came to us.” 

Susan interfered nervously. 

“Now, Joe, you ain’t going into that, are you?” 

“Yes, I am. Why not? It’s high time, speakin’ of 
values, that young Posy should know just what she cost 

201 


Quinneys’ 

us. I say it’s part of her education, the part she couldn’t 
learn at school. She’s eighteen. She knows, I take it, 
that she didn’t drop from heaven into the middle of a 
gooseberry-bush ?” 

At this Susan, not Posy, blushed. It was the girl 
who said, calmly: 

“You are quite right, father. I ought to know what 
I’ve cost both of you.” She looked at her mother ten- 
derly, and spoke in a softer voice: “Is it true that you 
nearly died?” 

“Yes.” 

“And so did I,” said Quinney. 

Posy’s eyes filled with tears. 

“I shall always remember that,” she murmured. 




202 


CHAPTER XVI 


A BUSINESS PROPOSITION 


I 



HE covers are perfectly beautiful,” said Quinney, 


-1- “the very finest needlework, all of 'em worked by 
the same hand, and all of 'em different in pattern.” 

He was staring at a set of eight chairs which had ar- 
rived that morning from a town in Essex. James had 
just unpacked them, and was regarding them gloomily, 
for he cared nothing about needlework covers, and the 
chairs themselves were of walnut, very old, very worm- 
eaten, and carved by a prentice hand. He said so pres- 
ently. Quinney snorted. 

“Do you think, my lad, I’d ask you to waste your 
time and talents tinkering with those? Rip off the cov- 
ers carefully, and put them aside. Save the nails and 
the backing. Don’t show 'em to anybody. They need 
cleaning, but I shan’t send 'em to a reg’lar cleaner's. 
You can try your hand on 'em.” 

“Not much in my line,” said James. 

“Liver out o' whack this morning?” 

“Not that I'm aware of.” 

“Well, try to look more cheerful. It pays.” 

He scuttled off, chuckling to himself, and thinking 
what fools other dealers were, for these chairs had been 
bought cheap from a dealer who, like James Miggott, 


203 


Quinneys’ 

knew nothing of the value of eighteenth-century needle- 
work. 

By the luck of things, that same morning Tom Tam- 
lin telephoned from Bond Street, asking him to drop in 
at his earliest convenience. Quinney went at once, well 
aware that procrastination loses many a bit of business. 
He found his friend in much excitement. 

“Got something to show you,” said Tamlin. 

“Got something to show you ” retorted Quinney. 

“What?” 

“The finest set of old needlework chair-covers I’ve 
seen for many a long day.” 

Tamlin exhibited enthusiasm. 

“That beats the band !” he exclaimed. “Looks as if it 
was fairly meant/' 

“What d’ye mean, Tom?” 

“You come along with me, and see.” 

Quinney followed him, conscious of a rising excite- 
ment, for Tamlin reserved enthusiasm for memorable 
occasions. The pair walked together down Bond Street 
and into Oxford Street. In a few minutes they were 
passing Lark and Bundy’s establishment. Tamlin 
paused at the great plate glass window. 

“Look at them chairs, Joe.” 

Quinney flattened his nose against the glass, being 
slightly short-sighted. The chairs were magnificent. 

“Nice lot— hey?” 

“And a nice price Bundy paid for ’em. You wasn’t 
at Christopher’s the day before yesterday?” 

“By Gum! Tom, you don’t mean to say that those 
are the Pevensey chairs ?” 

“Yes, bang out of Pevensey Court, sold with Chip- 
204 


A Business Proposition 

pendale’s receipt for 'em. Sixteen hundred guineas, my 

tulip r 

They went on in silence. Presently Quinney growled 
out: “It's a cruel price.” 

“They’re the goods, Joe. Hall-marked ! Bundy can 
place ’em at a big profit with Dupont Jordan. Did you 
notice the carving?” 

“Did I ? Never saw a finer set, never !” 

They walked on towards the Circus, and presently 
turned sharp to the right. By this time they were ap- 
proaching Soho Square. 

“Come out of our way a bit, haven’t we?” 

Tamlin replied solemnly. “I wanted you to have a 
squint at those chairs first. Here we are.” 

They paused opposite a mean house, entered an open 
door, and ascended a rickety, evil-smelling staircase. 
Tamlin pulled a key from his packet, unlocked a door 
upon the second floor, and ushered Quinney into a big- 
gish room filled with odds and ends of furniture. Quin- 
ney had been here before. It was one of Tamlin’s many 
small warehouses. The centre of the floor had been 
cleared, and in this cleared space stood four chairs. 

“Thunder and Mars!” 

“Thought you’d be surprised,” muttered Tamlin, pull- 
ing up a dirty blind. 

The four chairs were carved like the chairs from 
Pevensey Court. They had horsehair seats much di- 
lapidated, and the mahogany had been mercilessly 
treated, but to a connoisseur such as Quinney there was 
not a scintilla of doubt that they were carved by the 
same master hand which had designed and executed the 
set in Lark and Bundy’s window. 

“Where are the other four?” asked Quinney, on his 

205 


Quinneys’ 

knees before the chairs, running his hands over them, 
caressing them with tender touches. 

“Where? Oh, where?” said Tamlin. Then he spoke 
curtly and to the point: 

“Them four came out of Ireland. I paid fifty pound 
for 'em.” 

“You do have the devil’s own luck, Tom.” 

“Not so fast. I can’t find out anything about them. 
If I tried to sell ’em, as they are, Lark would see to it 
that fellows like Pressland crabbed ’em, as he did that 
commode o’ yours.” 

Quinney gnashed his teeth. The history of that un- 
happy transaction was now known to him. He knew 
where the commode was, and what price had been paid 
for it. 

“With luck,” continued Tamlin thoughtfully, “I might 
sell these chairs for fifty a piece. One is an armchair. 
Your covers would go nicely on ’em, eh?” 

“By Gum, the very thing.” 

“And you’ve eight covers?” 

“Eight of the best.” 

Tamlin stared hard at the little man. 

“Let’s have a look at the covers,” he said slowly. 

They returned to Soho Square. Somewhat to Quin- 
ney’s astonishment he found Posy in James’s room. 
Her presence, however, was easily and glibly explained. 
James, obeying orders, had asked his employer’s daugh- 
ter for some cleaning fluid. She had just brought him 
some. That was all. Quinney frowned, and signified 
with a gesture that Posy could “scoot.” She did so, 
after exchanging greetings with Tamlin. 

“Dev’lish fine gal!” said Tamlin. “Glad to see she’s 
not above helpin’ in the business.” 

206 


A Business Proposition 

“Don’t want her help !” growled Quinney. He turned 
savagely to James : 

“Didn’t I tell you not to show them covers to no- 
body ?” 

“Sorry,” replied James carelessly. “I supposed Miss 
Quinney would be considered an exception.” He added, 
with mild derision, “She took no interest in the covers 
at all.” 

“She saw them?” snapped Quinney. 

“Possibly,” said James. 

Tamlin examined them carefully, nodding his big 
head, getting redder than usual as he bent down. 
James had removed one cover. 

“They’re a bit of all right,” pronounced Tamlin. 

Quinney led the way upstairs into the sanctuary. 
Posy was there, cleaning some beautiful glass lustres. 
Her father addressed her snappishly: 

“Look ye here, young woman, I don’t want you nosin’ 
about downstairs. See?” 

Posy tossed her head, furious with her father because 
he rebuked her before Tamlin. She replied coldly: 

“I thought I could go where I liked in our own 
house.” 

“It’s my house. See? You run along to mother like 
a good girl.” 

With immense dignity Posy moved to the door. If 
she wanted to impress upon her father that she was 
now a woman grown, she succeeded admirably. As the 
door closed behind her, Tamlin said : 

“Bit short with her, wasn’t you?” 

“Do her good. I won’t have no tete-a-tetin ’ between 
her and James Miggott.” 


207 


Quinneys’ 


II 

They sat down. Quinney pushed a box of cigars 
across his desk. It annoyed him slightly that Tamlin 
selected one with unflattering suspicion, smelling it, and 
putting it to his ear. 

“It’s all right, Tom: I only smoke the best in this 
room.” 

Tamlin lit the cigar, inhaled the smoke, and nodded 
approvingly : 

“Must admit, Joe, that you know a bit about most 
things. Come on surprisingly, you have.” 

At this Quinney smiled complacently. Tamlin con- 
tinued, eyeing his companion shrewdly and genially : 

“I’ve a proposition to lay before you, Joe.” 

“Go ahead.” 

Tamlin rose, walked to the door, and opened it. He 
closed it softly and came back. 

“Whatever are you up to, old man?” 

Tamlin grinned. 

“My women,” he remarked pensively, “listen at 
doors.” 

Quinney exploded. 

“And you dare to think that ?” 

“Tch! Tch! Nothing like making cocksure. What 
I have to say is not for other ears. Now, ain’t it a pity 
that we haven’t eight o’ them Chippendale chairs on 
which we could fit them eight fine covers?” 

“Pity? It’s a sinful shame.” 

“Almost a dooty we owe to society to turn them four 
into eight?” 

“Hey?” 

208 


A Business Proposition 

“James could do it.” 

“Are you mad, Tom? We know what James can do. 
I ain’t denyin’ that he’s a wonder, but he can’t copy 
them chairs so that you and I, not to mention the rest 
of ’em, wouldn’t know the difference if the new four 
was shoved alongside o’ the old four.” 

“Right !” 

“Then what the ’ell are you at?” 

Sinking his voice to a hoarse whisper, and leaning 
forward across the desk, the great Tamlin unfolded his 
scheme. 

“I propose this,” he said deliberately. “James can 
make eight chairs out of them four by breaking up the 
four, half and half, half of the old in each.” 

“Um !” said Quinney. 

“If the worst came to the worst,” continued Tamlin, 
“if any of ’em did drop on to the fact that the set of 
eight had been very considerably restored, what of it?” 

“Um !” repeated Quinney. 

“A set of eight chairs, slightly restored, with your 
covers on ’em, the dead spit of the Pevensey chairs, would 
excite attention?” 

“More than we might want. I don’t see Bundy a 
biddin’ for our set without askin’ a lot of questions. 
He’d spot the repairs.” 

“Right again. I put these questions, Joe, to have 
the pleasure of hearin’ you answer them as I would my- 
self. In a sort o’ friendly fashion I look upon you, my 
boy, as my pupil.” 

“Go on!” 

Tamlin’s large face brightened till it shone like a 
harvest moon. He had feared that his pupil would 
withhold those cheering progressive words. 


209 


Quinneys’ 

“Do you want to get back some o' your hard-earned 
savings which you lost over that commode ?” 

“Yes, I do.” 

“Follow me close. James goes to work on the quiet 
with my chairs ; he works alone in my room back o’ War- 
dour Street; he puts your covers on; and then we pass 
judgment on the completed set. If we’re satisfied, really 
satisfied, I don’t think we need to worry much about 
Bundy and Pressland. Lark — thank the Lord ! — is losin’ 
his eyesight. When the chairs have passed our exami- 
nation, they’ll go to Christopher’s. You can leave all 
that to me. Nobody will know that you and I have ever 
seen the chairs.” 

“Nobody? How about James?” 

“Exactly. James must be squared. It’s time you 
raised his salary. I shall make him a handsome present. 
Remember, you’ll lend James to me for this little job. 
It don’t concern you.” 

“You take James for a fool?” 

“Not me. James is a bit of a knave, but he knows 
which side his bread is buttered. If he was a fool I 
wouldn’t touch him with a barge-pole. I’m afraid o’ 
fools. Now, we’ve got the chairs to Christopher’s, and 
we’ll choose a small day for the sale, some day when 
the big men are elsewhere.” 

“Then who’ll bid for ’em?” 

“Me and you, my lad.” 

He lay back in his chair, winked triumphantly, and 
laughed. Quinney was still puzzled. 

“Bid for our own chairs? Pay a thumpin’ commis- 
sion to find ’em on our hands? Funny business!” 

“Joe, you ain’t quite as sharp as I thought you was. 
We two, and anybody else as likes, bid for the chairs. 

210 


A Business Proposition 

We bid up to nine hundred pounds. Christopher’s com- 
mission would be ninety o’ that. The chairs cost me 
fifty. What do you value them covers at?” 

“Five and twenty — thirty.” 

“Call it thirty. Put James’s work at another thirty. 
That makes a round two hundred quid. What have we 
got to show for that? A set of eight chairs which have 
fetched nine hundred pounds at Christopher’s, with 
Christopher’s receipt to prove that the money was paid 
down for ’em. Christopher returns that nine hundred, 
less their com., to my agent, that is to us. You see to 
it that the buyin’ of the chairs by you is properly para- 
graphed. You have them on exhibition in this very 
room, and I bring a customer to whom you show Chris- 
topher’s receipt. Everything square and simple. My 
customer offers you eleven hundred. We share and 
share alike just nine hundred pounds. Four hundred 
and fifty each. No risks!” 

“Um !” said Quinney, for the third time. Tamlin rose 
with alacrity considering his weight. 

“You think it over. Take your time.” 

“Don’t like it!” growled the little man. 

“I call it a perfectly legitimate transaction.” 

“Come off it, Tom!” 

“Are you thinkin’ o’ your inside or your outside? 
Yer skin or yer conscience? If it’s conscience ” 

“Well ?” 

“I’ll make this remark. One way and t’other I’ve paid 
you more than a thousand pounds for ‘restoration’ work 
done by James Miggott during the past four years or 
more. Don’t forget that ! So long !” 

Quinney heard him chuckling as he made his way 
downstairs. 


21 1 


Quinneys’ 


hi 

He became a party to the projected fraud, but not 
without perturbations of spirit and rumblings of con- 
science. Ultimately he salved the latter with the sooth- 
ing reflection that he was much more honest than Tamlin 
or Lark or Bundy. It is affirmed, with what truth I 
know not, that gluttons who happen to be total abstain- 
ers are peculiarly virulent against drunkards. Quinney, 
poor fellow, son of a dishonest father, dishonest himself 
during his earlier manhood, reflected joyously that he 
was an admirable husband and father. He said to Susan, 
who was in blissful ignorance of his dealings with Tom 
Tamlin : 

“Old Tamlin, hoary-headed sinner, went to Black- 
pool for the last week-end, and he didn’t go alone, nor 
with Mrs. T., neither. He’s a moral idiot is Tom. 
What would you say, Susie, if I went larkin’ off to 
Brighton with Mabel Dredge — hey?” 

He pinched her still blooming cheek, staring into her 
faithful eyes. 

Susan replied artlessly : 

“Joe, dear, it would break my heart,” 

“Gosh, I believe it would. Well, mother, your loving 
heart won’t be broken that way.” 

Susan knew that this was true, and smiled delight- 
fully. 

“I’m a good hubby,” said Quinney complacently, “and 
the very best of fathers, by Gum !” 

Whenever he “swanked” (we quote Posy) like this, 
Susan regarded him anxiously. 

James Miggott undertook his new job without pro- 
212 


A Business Proposition 

test, but there was an expression upon his handsome 
face which puzzled his employer. He summed up James 
as “downy.” When he raised the young man’s salary 
to four pounds a week, that derisive smile of which men- 
tion has been made played about James’s too thin lips. 
Quinney said sharply: 

“You don’t seem bustin’ with joy and gladness. Four 
quid a week ain’t to be sneezed at.” 

“Don’t I earn it, sir?” 

His tone was perfectly respectful, with a faint sub- 
acid inflection. 

When the four chairs were turned into eight, and 
duly covered with the precious needlework, Tamlin and 
Quinney inspected them with huge satisfaction. Cer- 
tainly James had done himself justice. The restorations 
were subjected to microscopic scrutiny. Tamlin smacked 
his gross lips. 

“You leave the rest to me,” he said. 

IV 

The time has come to explain James’s smile. We 
must attempt what French dramatic critics term the 
“scene obligatoire ” 

He had captured Posy. 

He achieved this easily, because he happened to be 
the first good-looking man to make love to a healthy 
young woman of lively sensibilities and affections. Here 
again the uncharitable may be justified in hinting at that 
practice which makes the game of love perfect. If 
Youth but knew! This youth did know many things 
which he kept to himself discreetly; saliently amongst 
them may be reckoned the art of striking hard when the 

213 


Quinneys’ 

iron is hot. Posy grew very hot, when her sire rebuked 
her for wandering downstairs into James’s room. James 
perceived this. Let us say this for him in partial excuse 
of what follows. He had fallen in love with a blooming 
girl, whose bloom contrasted so agreeably with the too- 
white cheeks of Miss Mabel Dredge, whose high spirits 
were strong enough to raise to their level his somewhat 
gloomy thoughts. Truth being the essence of this chron- 
icle, we are constrained to add that the hope of being 
admitted to partnership with a prospective father-in-law 
had been another lever towards this mental exaltation. 
Nor did James forget that Posy was possessed, under 
Mrs. Biddlecombe’s will, of some three thousand pounds 
which became hers absolutely when she attained her ma- 
jority. 

The pair talked together very seldom after Quinney’s 
injunction, but they passed each other half a dozen 
times a day, preserving a silence which is perhaps the 
most barbed dart in Dan Cupid’s quiver! Each began 
to study facial expression, and the finer shades of com- 
mon salutation. The mere words, “Good morning,” ad- 
mit infinite variety of inflection. The pronouncing of 
a name, even such a name as Quinney, may be made 
lyrical, almost hymeneal. James showed himself to be a 
master of these simple arts. His appearance at such mo- 
ments indicated suffering nobly controlled. Posy began 
to lie awake at night wondering if James also was a 
martyr to insomnia. You may be sure that she en- 
countered James in those pleasant suburbs of slumber 
frequented by lovers, the vias tenebrosas where Dante 
and Beatrice, Petrarch and Laura, Francesca and Paolo 
must have wandered hand in hand. Here, in sequestered 
peace Posy talked to James without any exasperating 
214 


A Business Proposition 

restrictions save those which maidenly modesty imposed. 
Imaginary conversations have won many hearts. 

And then one day occurred the coup de foudre. 

Quinney and Susan happened to be out. Posy, as 
usual, was dusting the china in the sanctuary. James 
entered the room. 

“Good morning, Mr. Miggott!” 

“Good morning, Miss — Posy !” 

He had never called her Posy before. But she divined 
from the tenderness of his tone that her name must have 
passed his lips a thousand times. 

They looked at each other diffidently. Posy stretched 
out her hand. She felt that this was due to an artist 
who might reasonably infer that he was not held in 
the highest esteem by his master’s daughter. James 
hesitated for one moment only. Then he kissed her hand. 
She quivered. He ran his hungry lips along her slender 
wrist. She thrilled and sighed. He took her into his 
arms and kissed her masterfully, feeling her heart throb- 
bing beneath his own. 

Presently they discussed the future, although loath in- 
deed to leave the present. 

“What will father say?” 

“Darling, you must let me deal with your father.” 

“Can you?” 

“I think so. I am sure of it. We must be patient and 
very, very careful.” 

“I should like to tell mother.” 

“No, no ! Believe me that would be a blunder. She 
would tell him. For the moment we must love secretly.” 

She sighed deliciously. 

“It does sound exciting and romantic. Of course you 
know best.” 


215 


Quinneys’ 

“I do!” he replied grimly. “I know that I shall have 
to fight for you. I mean to fight. You’ll see. But we 

must be extra careful. A look ! We can write to 

each other.” 

Her smooth forehead puckered. 

“Can we? Father always deals out the letters. He 
would think nothing of opening mine if he suspected.” 

“I have a plan.” 

“What! You have made plans? You were sure of 
me ?” 

“No, no! Never sure. Torn in two, I was, between 
hope and fear, but I made plans all the same. Look 
here, we can use that lac cabinet as a pillar-box.” 

“Father’s precious cabinet?” 

“He never opens it; the drawers are empty; the key 
is in the lock.” 

Together they approached the cabinet, one of the 
“gems.” Upon the top of it stood the Kang He mirror- 
black jar much beloved by Quinney. James opened the 
cabinet, almost more beautiful within than without. He 
indicated a drawer. 

“Pop your letters into that. Then lock the cabinet, 
and hide the key in the mirror-black bottle.” 

“What a splendid idea!” 

“Isn’t it? If he misses the key, you will be asked to 
find it, and you will find it. Then we can choose another 
pillar-box. You will post your letters, dearest, in the 
morning, when you are dusting here. In the middle of the 
day, while you are lunching, I shall get your letter and 
post one of my own. That way we run no risks at all.” 

“You are quite wonderful!” 

Susan had used the same words to her Joe twenty 
years before. 

216 


CHAPTER XVII 


INTRODUCES CYRUS P. HUNSAKER 

I 

OOME three weeks later the “restored” Chippendale, 
^ chairs were sold on a by-day at Christopher’s fa- 
mous auction rooms, and, as the public prints set forth, 
were secured after spirited competition for nine hundred 
pounds by Mr. Joseph Quinney, of Soho Square. There 
had been, according to the reporters, a duel a outrance 
between Quinney and Tamlin for the possession of these 
magnificent chairs. 

Upon the following morning Posy was alone in the 
sanctuary. Her father had installed recently a speaking 
tube, communicating with James Miggott’s room, which 
was just behind the shop. Posy used this whenever the 
chance presented itself to exchange a few whispered 
words with her lover. She had just informed him that 
a billet had been popped into the lac cabinet. Also she 
had exchanged kisses through the tube, and perhaps on 
that account her eyes were sparkling more brightly than 
usual. She was hanging up the tube when Susan en- 
tered. 

“Thought I heard you talking just before I came in,” 
said Susan. 

Posy, the hardened young sinner, never blushed as she 
answered lightly: 


217 


Quinneys’ 

“I was asking Jim through the tube where father 
was.” 

Susan stared at her pensively. 

“Your dear father would be very much displeased if 
he heard you speaking of James Miggott as Jim. It's too 
familiar.” 

“Why?” 

“I’m not going to bandy words with you, Posy, be- 
cause you do get the best of me, thanks to your fine 
schooling.” 

Posy frowned. She was hearing too often of her 
“advantages.” She said protestingly : 

“Mumsie, dear, don’t rub that in. I’m fed up with 
such vain repetitions from father. I didn’t ask him to 
send me to an expensive boarding-school. I believe he 
did it to annoy the Tamlins.” 

This, we know, was not the reason, but there was 
some truth in it. Tom Tamlin had considered a gov- 
erness at forty-five pounds per annum quite good enough 
to educate his three daughters. Susan laughed. Posy 
amused her when she talked with entire frankness. 

“Dear heart, what things you do say, to be sure ! You 
were sent to Bexhill because there was too much Honey- 
bunning. But it did annoy the Tamlins. I remember 
when your grandmother bought a small piano for me. 
We lived in a semi-detached. How the neighbours did 
tear their hair with envy and jealousy.” 

Posy, clad in a neat pinafore, was rubbing the lacquer 
cabinet. Mrs. Quinney watched her fondly, thinking 
how young and vigorous the girl was. 

“Rub the lacquer gently, child. Coax the polish 
back.” 

“Right O,” said Posy. 

218 


Introduces Cyrus P. Hunsaker 

“Your poor father thinks the world of that cabinet.” 

“So do I,” said Posy demurely. 

Susan opened her eyes wider than usual, detecting 
real warmth in her daughter’s voice. 

“Do you? That’s your father cropping out in you. 
I’m beginning to believe that he prefers things to per- 
sons; so you’d better be warned in time. The beauty of 
this world ain’t to be found in sticks or stones.” 

“Cheer up, mumsie! I shan’t devote my young life 
to either a stick or a stone.” 

She laughed softly as Mabel Dredge came quietly in. 
Susan looked at her husband’s typist not too pleasantly. 
She was not jealous of the young woman, but it exasper- 
ated her to reflect that Mabel spent two hours at least 
every day with Quinney. She said crisply: 

“Mr. Quinney is out, Miss Dredge.” 

“I know. The chairs from Christopher’s have just 
come.” 

Posy exclaimed excitedly: “I’m dying to see them.” 
Susan sighed. Nine hundred pounds would have bought 
another Dream Cottage, with a small garden. Miss 
Dredge continued in her monotonous voice: 

“Mr. Quinney left orders that they were to be brought 
up here.” 

“Very good,” said Susan. “Tell Mr. Miggott to bring 
them up.” 

“Yes, madam.” 

The typist moved slowly towards the door. Susan 
glanced at her keenly, contrasting her with Posy. In 
her usual kind voice she murmured: 

“You don’t look very well, Miss Dredge.” 

“I am perfectly well, thank you, madam.” 


219 


Quinneys’ 

She went out, closing the door. Susan said reflec- 
tively : 

“Crossed in love, I dare say.” 

“Poor dear, I hope not.” 

“Six months ago I did think that she and James Mig- 
gott might make a match of it.” 

“What?” 

“Why shouldn’t they? Very suitable, I’m sure.” 

“Oh, yes,” Posy murmured hastily. Changing the sub- 
ject briskly, she went on : “If the Christopher chairs are 
to be placed in this room, I suppose that father means to 
keep them.” 

“Till he gets a big price.” 

Presently James appeared, followed by two men carry- 
ing the chairs. They were arranged side by side in a 
double row. Posy examined them with the keenest in- 
terest. Susan glanced at them and sniffed : 

“Fancy paying nine hundred pounds for those !” 

“They’re simply lovely,” said Posy. She stroked the 
needlework and glanced at James’s impassive face. “It’s 
funny, but there’s something familiar about them to me. 
I must have seen them before.” 

“Quite impossible,” said James. “They came out of 
an old house in Ireland. They’re almost replicas of the 
famous Pevensey set, which Lark and Bundy bought.” 

Susan had moved to one of the windows overlooking 
the dingy square. She never beheld the trees and grass 
without thinking of her beloved flower-garden in Mel- 
chester. The sight of the chairs annoyed her tremen- 
dously. More false gods ! Would the day ever come 
when her Joe, with his keen love of beauty, would turn 
his eyes and heart to what grew, to what was alive? 
She heard Posy saying: 

220 


Introduces Cyrus P. Hunsaker 

“It's the needlework I seem to recognize.” 

“Bother the needlework !” exclaimed Susan. 

“Why, mumsie, what is it?” 

“It worries me to see you kneeling and gloating over 
stupid old furniture, that’s all. Here’s your father com- 
ing. Good-looking young fellow with him, too. Much 
better worth looking at than them chairs.” 

James retired. Posy joined her mother at the win- 
dow. Just below stood her father and a tall stranger. 
Quinney was pointing out the pediment, and expatiating 
volubly upon the solid qualities of Georgian houses. 

“Father is swanking,” said Posy. 

The two men entered the shop below. 


II 

Presently, Quinney came up stairs, betraying some ex- 
citement, easily accounted for by Susan. A big buyer 
was below, the sort of customer who might spend hun- 
dreds without turning a hair. Quinney was rubbing his 
hands together and chuckling. He informed the ladies 
that a rich American was in the shop, and wanted to 
see the chairs. 

“They’re here,” said Susan. 

Quinney frowned very slightly. It annoyed him when 
his wife made futile remarks, a habit which she seemed 
to have acquired recently, or was he becoming more 
critical ? 

“Where did you think I thought they was?” he in- 
quired, hovering about them, but not gloating over them, 
somewhat to Susan’s surprise. 

“Want us out of the way?” asked Susan. 


221 


Quinneys’ 

“Certainly not. Isn’t this your drawing-room, old 
dear ?” 

“Fiddle !” said Susan tartly. 

She could not have explained why she was feeling 
irritable, but of late, since Posy’s return from school, 
she had lost something of her normal serenity. Possibly 
she resented being made a fool of before her daughter. 
The sanctuary was not her room, and never had been or 
could be anything but Quinney’s room, filled to over- 
flowing with his things. Also, she was aware that her 
husband used her as a stalking horse. No doubt he had 
just said to this young American : “I’ll ask my wife if I 
can show you her room.” What nonsense ! 

Quinney, however, was not disturbed by her exclama- 
tion. He glanced at Posy, and told her to take off a 
brown holland pinafore. Then he scuttled off, still 
chuckling. He reappeared, ushering in the stranger, pre- 
senting him as Mr. Cyrus P. Hunsaker, of Hunsaker. 

Mr. Hunsaker bowed politely. Posy perceived that 
he was very nice-looking, an out-of-doors man, bronzed 
by wind and sun, a typical Westerner, probably a rider 
of bucking bronchos, a man of flocks and herds. He 
was quite at his ease with the two women, and — unlike 
young Englishmen of his age (he looked about thirty) — 
able to appreciate what he saw in words culled from a 
copious vocabulary. Quinney was delighted with him. 
He liked most Americans because they were strivers 
and pushers, and free with their dollars. He saw, too, 
that Posy had made an immense impression. Hunsaker 
stared at her with flattering intensity. Posy, equally at 
ease, asked him if the town of Hunsaker was called after 
him. This mightily pleased her father, because it estab- 
lished the right atmosphere at once. The “shop” was 
222 


Introduces Cyrus P. Hunsaker 

downstairs. From beginning to end the little comedy 
about to be played had been rehearsed between Tamlin 
and Quinney. Tamlin had found Hunsaker and intro- 
duced Quinney to him, as the proud owner of the chairs 
which he, Tamlin, had wanted to secure. Tamlin had 
said sorrowfully: “They’re just what you’re after, Mr. 
Hunsaker, but this Quinney, queer little cuss! — bought 
’em, I do believe, for himself. He won’t part with his 
very best things. He’s quite potty about it!” This had 
challenged Hunsaker’s interest. Quinney, seemingly, was 
a man after his own heart. He, too, hated to part with 
certain possessions. He did not as yet know much about 
articles of vertu, but he wanted to know. An unslakable 
thirst for such knowledge consumed many dollars. He 
answered Posy breezily — one had a whiff of the prairie, 
of the Wild West. 

“Shall I tell you, Miss Quinney, how that great and 
growing town came to be called by my name?” 

“Please.” 

“Well, most of the towns and villages in New Mexico 
used to be called after the names of saints and saintesses. 
When it came to christening this particular village the 
boys wanted to name it San Clemente, but my father 
was of opinion that we were fed up with saints, so he 
said: 'Hold hard, why not call this little burg by the 
name of a sinner!’ And the drinks were on the old 
man, for then and there they called it Hunsaker.” 

“Was your father a sinner?” asked Posy demurely. . 

Hunsaker laughed. 

“He was a tough old nut when up against the wrong 
crowd. Ah! the chairs!” 

“Yes,” said Quinney carelessly. 

“Elegant!” He glanced at the beautiful room with 

223 


Quinneys’ 

enthusiasm. It made inordinate demands upon his vo- 
cabulary. He racked his brains for the right words 
which came. Very solemnly, he observed: 

“You have here, Mr. Quinney, an incomparable reser- 
vation.” 

“Yes,” Quinney replied, with equal gravity, “this is 
my private collection, Mr. Hunsaker; everything I value 
most in the world, including my wife and daughter. 
Lordy ! How I hate rubbish ! Rubbish is beastly !” He 
pointed to the lacquer cabinet, purposely distracting the 
young man’s attention from the chairs. “Now a cabinet 
like that makes me think of heaven. I can say my 
prayers to it!” 

Susan said, with a touch of her mother’s majesty: 

“Joe, how you do go on!” 

“Yes, my dear, I go on and up! We’d be stewin’ in 
our own juice in a silly old sleepy town if it hadn’t been 
for me. On and — up ! What a motter for a Christmas 
cracker! Married the right woman, too, a perfect lady !” 

“Joe — please !” 

Hunsaker was much amused. He had liked the little 
man at first sight; he was quite as delighted with his 
family. Quinney continued in high good humour: 

“I chose her,” he pointed at Susan, who blushed. “And 
the result,” he pointed at Posy, who did not blush, “jus- 
tifies my choice — hey ?” 

“You bet it does,” said Hunsaker. “Miss Quinney is 
by all odds the most precious object in this wonderful 
room — the gem, if I may say so, of your remarkable col- 
lection.” 

Quinney gazed fondly at his daughter. He had almost 
forgotten the chairs. 

“Just like a bit of Chelsea, Mr. Hunsaker. The real 
224 


Introduces Cyrus P. Hunsaker 

soft paste, and as good as she’s pretty; the apple of her 
father’s eye. Plays the pianner and the mandoline! 
Sings like a canary!” 

Posy expostulated. 

'‘Father!” She put her finger to her pretty lips. 

Hunsaker, feeling that he had known these pleasant 
people all his life, said significantly: 

“You won’t keep her long, sir.” 

“What?” 

“Not if there are any spry young men about.” 

Quinney betrayed real uneasiness. It flashed upon him 
suddenly that this abominable loss was inevitable. He 
consoled himself with the reflection that no spry young 
men had been about. Then he said with unction: 

“I’m going to hang on tight to my little girl. She is 
the gem of my collection. Cost me more than money, 
too.” He sank his voice confidentially. “Nearly cost 
me her pore dear mother. By Gum ! I remember swear- 
ing that I’d give up selling imitation oak as the real stuff, 
if my old Dutch pulled through.” 

“And did you ?” Hunsaker asked. 

“I did. More, I tore up a big card that used to live 
in our front window — ‘ Genuine Antiques !’ Yes; never 
sold faked stuff after that, unless labelled as such. Lordy ! 
I’m wastin’ your valuable time.” 

“Not at all.” 

“Posy, show Mr. Hunsaker that case o’ miniatures. 
I’ve a Samuel Cooper, two Englehearts, a Plimer, and 
half a dozen Cosways.” 

Hunsaker shook his head. 

“I know nothing about miniatures. There’s a daisy of 
a china cabinet!” 

“It is. Delighted to show you stuff, Mr. Hunsaker. 

225 


Quinneys’ 

You’ve the collector’s eye. Take a squint at those blue 
and white jars on the mantelpiece.” 

“I’d sooner look at your chairs.” 

Quinney said lightly: 

“You can look at anything you like, Mr. Hunsaker, but 
I understood from Mr. Tamlin that you had all the ma- 
hogany you wanted.” 

“More than I want,” replied Hunsaker grimly. “I’ve 
been much imposed upon, Mr. Quinney, with mahog- 
any.” 

Susan flitted quietly from the room. Posy began to 
rub the lacquer of the Chinese cabinet. She heard her 
father saying: 

“Dear, dear! I’ve been done, too — crisp as a biscuit! 
Everybody’s done, hey?” 

“I’m never done twice by the same man.” He bent 
down to examine the carving of the chairs. “These are 
immense — the finest I’ve ever seen.” 

“By Gum ! I wish you could have seen the settee which 
I sold to a Grand Duke of Roosia.” 

Hunsaker hardly heard him. He was becoming ab- 
sorbed in the chairs. 

“The papers report you as having paid nine hundred 
pounds for the set.” 

Quinney chuckled, nodding his head. 

“That’s right! I’d had two glasses of old brown 
sherry after lunch. My tip to all and sundry is: Buy 
before lunch, unless you’re a blooming vegetarian and 
teetotaller.” 

Hunsaker prided himself upon the directness of his 
business methods. He said tentatively: 

“Would you take a handsome profit on these chairs?” 
226 


Introduces Cyrus P. Hunsaker 

“You look at that lac cabinet, and you won’t want 
to buy chairs.” 

Hunsaker did look at the lac cabinet, and the girl be- 
side it, softly rubbing its polished surface. He crossed 
to her, smiling. 

“On a Charles II. stand,” added Quinney. “The in- 
side is as beautiful as the outside — more so. I’ll show it 
to you. Where’s the key?” 

He addressed Posy, but she pretended not to hear him. 

“Where’s the key?” he repeated. 

“I saw it yesterday,” said Posy quietly. Her heart 
began to beat uncomfortably, as she thought of her letter 
in the middle drawer. 

“Can you see it now, missie? Is it on the floor?” 

Hunsaker interrupted : 

“Please don’t trouble. Is that screen Chinese?” 

“Yes ; incised lacquer. They wanted that for the South 
Kensington Museum. Hits you bang in the eye, don’t 
it?” 

Hunsaker examined it as Quinney expatiated upon the 
enamelling and colour. His enthusiasm, his accurate 
knowledge, his love of precious objects for their beauty 
of design and craftsmanship, impressed the young man 
tremendously. He remembered what Tamlin had said : 
“You’ll find Quinney a character. What he tells you is 
right is right ! That’s how he’s built up a thumping big 
business.” Hunsaker had not been vastly impressed by 
Tamlin, but he was quite certain that he had spoken the 
truth about Quinney. His heart warmed to the little 
man. When Quinney paused he said gratefully: 

“I’m much obliged ; it’s an education to see such treas- 
ures.” 

“The only education I’ve had, Mr. Hunsaker.” 

227 


Quinneys’ 

“I only wish that 1 could tempt you to part with one 
of them — this cabinet, for instance.” 

“It’s not for sale. I’d like to oblige you. Is there 
anything else you particularly fancy ?” 

Hunsaker’s roving eye was captivated by the Kang He 
mirror-black bottle, standing alone in its glory upon the 
top of the cabinet. 

“I like that black and gold jar.” 

“Um! It’s not bad, but there ought to be two of 
em. 

Posy wiped her pretty forehead. At the mention of 
the Kang He jar, in which lay snug the key of the 
cabinet, she had trembled with apprehension. Hunsaker 
said quickly: 

“I’d like the chairs best of all. You bought them 
yesterday for nine hundred. Will you take eleven hun- 
dred?” 

“Yes,” said Quinney, “I will.” 

He pulled out a pocket-book and extracted a slip of 
paper from it. “You can have this, Mr. Hunsaker. 
Don’t destroy it ! Keep it in your safe.” 

Hunsaker took it. 

“Christopher’s receipt for my cheque. It proves that 
the chairs fetched the price named at public auction.” 

“Thank you.” 

“And now, to sweeten our first deal, I’ll make you a 
little present. You fancied that Kang He bottle. It’s 
yours.” 

He advanced towards the bottle. Posy said hurriedly : 

“Shall I go and clean it, father?” 

“Clean it? It’s as clean as you are, my pretty.” 

“You are very generous,” said Hunsaker. 

Quinney winked and chuckled joyously. 

228 


Introduces Cyrus P. Hunsaker 

“Biz ! There are other things downstairs, Mr. Hun- 
saker. Are you buying these chairs for yourself?” 

As he spoke he held the bottle in both his hands, 
caressing it softly. 

“Why, certainly. Have them cased, please, and con- 
signed to my agents in New York, who will see them 
through the Custom House. Any marks on that jar, 
Mr. Quinney?” 

Quinney handed to him the bottle. 

“I don’t think so; they never marked them bottles. 
It’s marked all over.” 

Hunsaker turned it upside down, and the key of the 
cabinet fell out. 

“The missing key,” said Quinney. “Now what fool 
stuffed it in there?” 

He replaced it in the lock of the cabinet. 

“Like to see the inside?” he asked. 

Posy was in torment. In desperation she blurted out : 

“Father, dear, Mr. Hunsaker may have other engage- 
ments.” 

“I have,” said Hunsaker. “Important ones, too. 
Thank you, Miss Quinney.” He turned to her father. 
“May I call to-morrow at eleven, and have another look 
round ?” 

“Glad to see you any time.” 

As he was speaking, Susan drifted back. Hunsaker 
went up to her, speaking cordially : 

“This has been a very pleasant and informal visit, 
Mrs. Quinney. Do you ever go to the play?” 

“Sometimes,” said Susan. 

“Often,” added Posy. Her face was sparkling with 
smiles. Her cheeks were delicately flushed. Hunsaker 
said gaily : 


229 


Quinneys’ 

^Will you three nice people dine and do a play with 
me?” 

“You must leave me out/' said Ouinney. 

Posy answered for her mother and herself : 

“We shall be delighted, Mr. Hunsaker.” 

The young man shook hands. He seemed to hold 
Posy’s hand a thought longer than was necessary. Quin- 
ney chuckled, because he was thinking that if his Posy 
were to be taken away by some enterprising young man 
she might well be captured by Cyrus P. Hunsaker, of 
Hunsaker. Inspired by this thought he enjoined his 
daughter to accompany the visitor as far as the shop. 
Characteristically, he blurted out what was in his mind, 
as soon as he found himself alone with Susan. 

“He’s taken a shine to our girl, Susie.” 

“Fiddle!” said Susan, for the second time. 

“Stoopid expression! You must break yourself of 
that. I tell you it’s true. Couldn’t ask for nothing bet- 
ter. Fine upstanding young chap.” 

“A foreigner!” 

“Nonsense. They could spend half their time over 
here. You might give the child a hint. Tell her to play 
up.” 

“What an idea !” 

“I have ideas, Susie. We can’t expect to keep her; 
and the best in this country won’t marry a tradesman’s 
daughter. He’s as good as any in his country. See?” 

“I see a large mare’s nest,” replied Susan. 

Posy returned, brimming with the determination to 
retrieve her letter. Quinney beckoned to her 

“Come you here, my girl.” He took her head between 
his hands, and gazed at her proudly. “Did that young 
fellow squeeze your hand just now?” 

230 


Introduces Cyrus P. Hunsaker 

“Father!” 

“None o’ your sauce! Did he?” 

“Well, yes, he did.” 

Quinney winked triumphantly at Susan. He kissed 
Posy, and said superbly : 

“You’ve got a daddy with ambitions, a kind, loving, 
clever old daddy ! Lordy ! Sometimes I fair wonder at 
myself, I do. Because I’ve climbed so high. But you’re 
a-going higher — bang up! Good looks, I’ll admit you 
got them from mother, and good brains, same as mine. 
Quick wits, God bless you! You made a hit with young 
Hunsaker ! A bull’s-eye ! Now scoot, both of you ! I’ve 
a lot of business.” 

“I hav’n’t finished dusting, daddy.” 

“Yes, you have, when I say so. Scoot!” 

Unhappily, there was nothing else to do. 


231 


CHAPTER XVIII 


EXPLOSIONS 

I 

I ’VE sold the chairs, James. Take ’em away. Pack 
’em up at once! Nail down the cases. See?” 

“Yes, sir. I congratulate you, sir.” 

“Pack up extra carefully that Kang He bottle.” 

“The Kang He bottle?” 

Something in his tone arrested Quinney’s attention. It 
brought to mind what, for the moment, he had forgotten 
— the loss of the key and its tumbling out of the bottle. 
James, perhaps unconsciously, had glanced at the cabi- 
net, and Quinney’s alert eyes had intercepted the some- 
what furtive shifting glance. He said sharply : 

“The key of the cabinet was in that bottle. Did you 
put it there ?” 

James hesitated and was lost. Had he replied promptly, 
either in the affirmative or negative, his employer doubt- 
less would have dismissed the incident from his mind. 
James, unhappily, was constrained to determine swiftly 
the expediency of saying “Yes.” 

“I may have done so,” he replied. He went on flu- 
ently, “The key fits badly, tumbles out of the lock some- 
times. I meant to tell you.” 

Quinney blinked at him, wondering why he answered 
evasively. How did he know that the key fitted loosely? 
It was not his business to touch the cabinet. At the 
232 


Explosions 

same time he was conscious that James, as the restorer 
of the chairs, had been very prompt with his congratula- 
tions. Of course he knew everything; he had to know; 
and equally of course the secret of the fake bidding was 
perfectly safe with him, inasmuch as he had received a 
share of the plunder. Quinney had raised his salary; 
Tamlin had tipped him handsomely. 

“Nice profit for you, sir,” continued James blandly. 

“Not bad,” Quinney admitted. 

“Splendid idea, sir, buying in your own stuff.” 

Quinney rather winced at this, but he covered a slight 
confusion by his bluff manner and candid speech. He 
could not flimflam James. It would be fatuous to play 
the hypocrite with an accomplice. He said confidentially : 

“Christopher’s receipt just clinched matters. You 
ought to have been here, my lad. An object lesson for 
you, by Gum!” 

James’s voice was very silky as he murmured : 

“Nobody like you, sir, to sell stuff.” 

“Right you are, James, even if I do say it. There 
ain’t my superior in London, that means the world.” 

It was then that James led trumps for the first time. 
He continued in the same ingratiating tone: 

“Oh, yes, sir. And such a father, too.” 

Quinney swallowed this easily, smacked his lips over 
it, much to James’s satisfaction. 

“Always done my duty, my lad. That’s a thought to 
stick to one’s ribs — hey? Never can remember the day 
when I couldn’t say that. And the fam’ly, as I read only 
t’other day, is the unit o’ national life. Square, too, I’ve 
been, within reasonable limits, although I do make ig- 
norance pay a profit to knowledge. I know a lot, more’n 
you think for. And you owe a lot to me, James.” 

233 


Quinneys’ 


“Yes, sir.” 

“You’re very useful to me, my lad, and your future 
will be my special care.” 

James smiled. 

“Thank you, sir.” 

Afterwards, Quinney admitted to Susan that at this 
particular moment James’s good looks had hit him, so 
to speak, in the eye. But he did not consider them in 
relation to Posy. We know that the little man was 
amazingly shrewd whenever his own interests were im- 
perilled. And it had occurred to him, not for the first 
time, that there might be “something” between his hand- 
some foreman and his quite attractive typist. He could 
trust James. Could he trust Mabel Dredge? Some men 
babbled indiscreetly to the girls. 

“You’ll be thinking of gettin’ married one of these 
fine days?” 

“I have thought of it, sir.” 

The young man spoke so pleasantly that Quinney’s 
heart warmed to him. Moreover, he liked and respected 
Mabel. 

“Good ! What you want is a helpmate, a worker like 
yourself, strong, healthy, and comely.” 

“Strong, healthy, and comely,” repeated James. 

“One who’ll work hard in your house, while you’re 
working hard in mine. There are young fellows in 
your position, my lad, who make fools o’ theirselves by 
falling in love with young ladies. Useless creatures ! 
It would hurt me to see you doin' that, James.” 

“I’m sure it would. Much obliged, sir.” 

“Not at all. Never so happy as when I’m thinking 
for others.” 

James removed the chairs. 

234 


Explosions 


II 

Once more alone, Quinney thought of sending for 
Mabel Dredge, but he lit a cigar instead, and took stock 
of his treasures, wondering whether he could screw him- 
self up to part with the lacquer cabinet. Hunsaker would 
buy it. He would pay gladly a thumping price. Quin- 
ney approached it, puffing leisurely at his excellent cigar. 
As he did so the mysterious hiding of the key recurred 
to him. He stared at the cabinet, frowning. 

Then he opened it. 

Always, on such occasions, the hidden beauties of 
this miracle of craftsmanship appealed to him with ever- 
increasing strength. The lacquer inside was as softly 
fresh as upon the day when the last coat was lovingly 
applied. So soft, and yet so hard, that it could not be 
scratched with the nail. 

He gloated over it. 

At this moment he was absolutely at peace with him- 
self and the world. He would not willingly have changed 
places with the mighty Marquess of Mel. If there was a 
fly in his precious ointment, it might be considered so 
tiny as to be negligible. The most illustrious of the 
Chinese craftsmen, artists to their finger tips, lacked one 
small knack common to the English artisan. The draw- 
ers in these seventeenth-century cabinets <did not, alas, 
slide in and out with the beautiful smoothness character- 
istic of the best English specimens. Quinney pulled out 
two or three of them. 

In one he perceived a letter. He examined it. It 
was addressed: 

“To my own Blue Bird.” 


235 


Quinneys’ 


in 


The writing was Posy’s. 

Quinney stared at it, palsied with amazement. Then 
he read it, and re-read it, till the full meaning of what 
it meant had percolated through and through his mind. 
His cigar went out. He sat at his desk with the letter 
in his hand, dazed for the moment, breathing hard, very 
red in the face. The fingers which held the sheet of 
note-paper twitched. He noticed a faint fragrance of 
lavender, a perfume much affected by Posy, and he re- 
membered vividly a certain afternoon, long ago, when 
Susan had sat in the garden of the Dream Cottage filling 
small muslin bags with lavender to place between the 
baby linen of their tiny daughter. 

Slowly, a dull anger and rancour grew in him. What 
did this shameless baggage mean by deceiving him and 
Susan? He included Susan. Physically he was over- 
whelmed, eviscerated, almost faint with impotent rage, 
but he found himself wondering what Susan would say. 
Suppose — his heart grew cold — suppose she knew ! 
What! His faithful wife a party to this abominable 
fraud on him? Impossible! 

He rose up wearily, and walked with unsteady steps 
to the door. 

“Susan !” he cried querulously. 

Posy appeared, wreathed in smiles. With a terrific 
effort her father smiled frozenly at her. 

“Send your mother to me!” he said stiffly. “I want 
to see her at once on a small matter of business.” 

“Right O!” replied Posy. 

He returned to his desk. When Susan came in she 
perceived at once the change in him. 

236 


Explosions 

“Gracious, Joe, is this house afire ?” 

“No. I am. Shut the door.” 

She did so, and then approached him. 

“Whatever is the matter?” 

He held up the billet and said hoarsely, “Listen. I 
found this in the lacquer cabinet five minutes ago. It’s 
in Posy’s writin’. And it’s addressed ‘To my own Blue 
Bird.’ ” 

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” 

The sight of her weakness strengthened him, but he 
exclaimed testily, “Don’t make them stoopid noises. 
They sound like a mind out of whack. Sit tight! I’m 
a going to read this precious letter bang through, a letter 
written by your daughter.” 

Susan, wriggling on the edge of a chair, protested 
feebly : 

“My daughter? Ain’t she yours, too?” 

“I’m beginning to doubt it.” He read aloud, “ ‘My own 
Blue Bird ’” 

“Who is her Blue Bird, Joe?” 

“We’ll come to that soon enough. I may mention 
that there was a play called ‘The Blue Bird’ ! to which 
you took Posy twice, and you jawed for three days of 
nothing else. A damn blue bird, accordin’ to you, stands 
for happiness — hey?” 

“Yes.” 

He went on reading, “ ‘It was splendidly clever of 

you to think of using that silly old cabinet ’ Silly 

old cabinet ! Hear that ? And I’ve refused a thousand 
guineas for it!” 

“Go on, dear!” 

“I’m going on if you’ll kindly stop wigglin’ your leg. 
I’m going bang to the outside edge of this. Pay par- 

237 


Quinneys’ 

tic’lar attention. ‘It was splendidly clever of you to 
think of using that silly old cabinet as a pillar box, and 
the fact that we are corresponding under the nose of 
father makes the whole affair deliriously exciting and 

romantic. I should like to see his funny face ’ Is 

my face funny? Is it?” 

“Not now, Joe. Is there any more?” 

“Is there any more, Mrs. Ask-Another? D’ye think 
a girl educated at no expense spared ends a sentence in 
the middle of it? Keep that leg still, and I’ll finish. ‘I 
should like to see his funny face if he could read this.’ ” 

“My!” 

“She shall see it, by Gum! ‘We’ve got to be most 
awfully careful, because if he caught me talking to you 
except about his dull old business he would simply chat- 
ter with rage. But we must have a long talk together, 
and as soon as possible. Why not to-night ? Father and 
mother are always fast asleep by eleven. At half-past 
eleven to the minute I shall slip down to the sanctuary. 
You be ready downstairs. I’ll whistle softly through 
the tube; then you nip up, and we’ll have a perfectly 
lovely talk. Your own Posy.’ ” 

“But, Joe, who is her Blue Bird?” 

“He’ll be black and blue when I’ve man-handled him. 
It’s that dog, James Miggott.” 

Susan grew pale and trembled. She had never seen 
her Joe so moved to fury, not even when he had been 
“downed” by the pseudo Major Archibald Fraser. She 
faltered out: 

“Joe, dear, James is much bigger than you.” 

To this Quinney replied ironically: 

“After all these years o’ church goin’ I thought you 
believed that Right was stronger than Might. Has it all 
238 


Explosions 

soaked in? Did you mark that word ‘dull’ applied to 
my business? Do you know what the contents o’ this 
room would fetch at Christopher’s, if the right men were 
biddin’?” 

“Indeed, indeed, I don’t.” 

“Nobody knows what my collection would fetch. The 
Quinney Collection! ’Spose I leave everything to the 
nation — hey ?” 

Susan sat bowed and silent before the storm. 

IV 

Quinney did not look at her. Her attitude, her 
troubled face were sufficient alone to acquit her of any 
possible complicity in this abominable affair. The more 
he considered it as a tremendous fact in their lives, the 
more incredible, the more irrational it became to him. 
His Posy, the Wonder Child, the gem of the Quinney 
Collection, writing love-letters to an obscure faker of 
furniture, a “downy” cove, a rather sullen hireling who 
earned four quid a week ! Had his child been born and 
educated “regardless” for — this? Had Susan and he 
suffered pangs unforgettable in order that their child 
should forsake them for this maggot of a Miggott? 

Never! 

Slowly, his fighting instinct asserted itself. Catastro- 
phe of any kind overwhelmed him at first, and then his 
vitality, his recuperative qualities, would come to the 
rescue. He must fight this issue to the end. His dull 
anger and rancour passed. His active wits began to 
work. He felt oddly sensible of a certain exhilaration, 
the conviction that he would soar, like the Melchester 
spire, above these ignominies and disasters. 


239 


Quinneys’ 

He stood up, inhaling deep breaths, smiling grimly. 

“What are you going to do, Joe?” 

“Watch on, and see.” 

He replaced the billet in its envelope, which had been 
left open. Then he crossed to the cabinet, and put the 
letter into the drawer where he had found it. He closed 
the doors of the cabinet, and came back to his desk. 
About all these actions there was an automatic precision, 
as if the man had been transformed into a machine. 

Susan murmured : 

“Joe, you frighten me.” 

“Wouldn’t do that for the world, Susie.” His voice 
was slightly less hard. “I’m going to frighten them. 
See?” 

“How?” 

“I’m going to catch ’em together in this room to- 
night.” 

“Gracious !” 

“And you’ve got to stand shoulder to shoulder with 
me, behind that screen. At the right moment, when 
least expected, we’ll pop out.” 

“And what will you say?” 

“Ho! What will I say? Between now and then, my 
dear, I shall think over what I’m going to say. Words 
won’t fail me. I shall down the pair of them, rub their 
noses in their insolence and folly.” 

“Oh, dear !” exclaimed Susan. 


240 


CHAPTER XIX 


THINGS AND PERSONS 

I 

T HAT night, as usual, the Quinneys retired to bed 
at half-past ten. At eleven, the door of Joe’s bed- 
room opened noiselessly, and the little man’s head, 
crowned with a ridiculous smoking-cap, appeared. His 
body followed arrayed in a flowered silk dressing-gown. 
Posy’s room was upstairs. 

Susan joined her husband. She was wearing what 
may be described as a compromise kit. Her pretty hair, 
still long and abundant, hung down her back in two 
braids. She had put on a peignoir of wadded silk, a 
garment not likely to rustle as she walked. Upon her 
small feet were thick felt slippers. In this costume she 
looked ten years younger, and she was pleasurably aware 
of this for reasons that will appear presently. 

Quinney closed his bedroom door. They listened for a 
moment, but no sound came from above. Probably Posy 
was in bed, counting the minutes till the big clock on the 
stairs summoned her to meet her lover. 

Quinney and Susan tip-toed down to the first floor. 
In the sanctuary a fire was burning in the dog-grate. 
Quinney smiled grimly, as he realized that Posy had 
replenished it with logs which burned brightly enough 
to illuminate the room with a soft amber glow. 

241 


Quinneys’ 

“Sit down, mother.” 

Susan sat down in an armchair just opposite the fire. 
As a rule, this chair occupied its own particular corner. 
Posy, therefore, must have placed it in front of the 
hearth. Evidently Posy considered that one chair would 
suffice for two persons. 

Meanwhile, Quinney made his dispositions behind the 
screen. Presently he appeared, rubbing his hands and 
chuckling quietly. The walls in these fine old houses 
were so comfortably sound-proof, that he had no hesita- 
tion in speaking in his usual voice. 

“There! Couched in the ambush, as Shakespeare 
says. Do you remember, old dear, when me and you 
took a course o’ the Bard to improve our powers o’ 
speech ?” 

Susan sighed. In the tender light she looked almost 
the Susan whom he had courted long ago. 

“Yes; we were young then, Joe.” 

“We’re young still, dearie. Young and spry ! Full o’ 
beans.” 

He stood on the hearth, facing her, with his back to 
the glowing logs, looking down upon her delicate fea- 
tures. She raised her eyes to his, speaking in a soft 
voice, with a faint smile flickering about her mouth. 
Quinney had fallen in love with her dimples. He 
thought he could see the ghost of one in the cheek 
slightly turned from the fire. His attitude, erect and 
sturdy, her attitude, the firelight, the lateness of the hour 
— these recalled insistently the sweet past, when Mrs. 
Biddlecombe used to leave the lovers to talk over the 
present and the future. Susan remembered, with an odd 
little pang at her heart, how satisfied she had been with 
that present, although Joe insisted upon forecasting their 
242 


Things and Persons 

future. And his predictions, those ambitions which she 
had regarded as vaulting high above human probability, 
had come to pass. He was famous and rich ! 

“Joe, dear!” 

“What is it?” 

“You became engaged to me, didn’t you, against your 
father’s wish, and unbeknown to mother? Yes, you did.” 

“And what of it?” 

“I never told mother that day you kissed me for the 
first time behind our parlour door.” 

“Now, Susie, what are you gettin’ at? Circumstances 
alter cases. My father made a white nigger o’ me. But, 
by Gum! I wasn’t disobedient.” 

“You were, and you know it.” 

“What you mean?” 

“You took up with me against his wish.” 

“Ho ! I honoured him by marrying the best girl in 
Melchester.” 

Susan said solemnly: 

“You did deceive him, Joe.” 

“Serve him right, too.” 

“I say you deceived him.” 

“Well, for the Lord’s sake, don’t go on sayin’ it, 
repeatin’ yourself like an old Poll parrot. Father never 
did do you justice. He never did know quality. Quan- 
tity was what he’d go for. Lordy! how he used to 
waller in cheap job lots!” 

Susan ignored this. With slow pertinacity, working 
steadily to her point, she continued : 

“And I deceived my pore mother. Used to wear my 
engagement ring at night.” 

She lifted her hand and looked at it. What a won- 
derful present it had been reckoned. Three turquoises 

243 


Quinneys’ 

with small brilliants, paid for out of the savings of a 
“white nigger”! 

Joe stared at the ring. It seemed to shine out of the 
past. He remembered everything. For instance, he had 
not haggled about the price demanded — six pounds ! He 
had felt that haggling would be indecent. He said 
pensively : 

“I used to envy that ring, Susie. I used to think of 
you asleep, and wonder what you looked like.” He 
sighed. “Great times them was, to be sure!” 

Susan met his glance. 

“Because of those times,” she whispered, “go a bit 
easy, Joe, with these young people.” 

But his face hardened immediately. 

“You leave that to me, my dear. I’ll fix ’em to rights. 
I’ll sweep the cobwebs out o’ their silly noddles.” 

“If you’ll try not to forget that we was just as silly 
once.” 

“Silly? Us? That won’t wash, Susie. Like mated 
like.” 

Susan remained silent. 

II 

When Posy entered the room, her parents were sitting 
snug behind the incised lacquer screen. The girl added 
a fresh log to the fire, and smiled as she looked at the 
big empty chair. She was wearing a very becoming pale 
blue dressing-gown. Her hair, like Susan’s, hung down 
her back in two thick pigtails tied with pale blue ribbon. 
Her bare feet were thrust into pale blue slippers. She 
might have been sixteen instead of eighteen, and about 
her there breathed a virginal air, deliciously fresh and 
fragrant. She smelled of lavender. 

244 


Things and Persons 

She went to the speaking-tube, and whistled down it. 
When her signal was answered, she said joyously : 

"It's all right, Jim. Father fast asleep and snoring! 
Come up ! Take your shoes off ! The fourth stair from 
the top creaks horribly. Skip that !” 

She hung up the tube, and spread her hands before 
the fire, warming them. Upon the third finger of her 
right hand sparkled a ring. Upon her charming face a 
smile sparkled also, as she listened for the step of her 
lover. 

James came in, carrying his slippers in his hand. He 
was dressed as usual in a well-cut blue serge suit. He 
closed the door noiselessly, and held out his arms. Posy 
flew into them, with a sigh of satisfaction, but when he 
hugged her too masterfully, she protested, blushing, slip- 
ping from his embrace with a low laugh. 

“You must promise to behave reasonably.” 

“Reasonably? Don’t you like being kissed by me?” 

“Of course I — er — like it.” 

“Awfully?” 

“If you sit in that chair, I’ll sit on the arm of it. 
Please! Be good!” 

He obeyed. She fussed over him, arranging the cush- 
ion behind his back, touching him almost furtively, but 
laughingly evading his touches, obviously the elusive 
nymph, captivated but not yet captured. James turned 
to look at her, slipping his arm round her waist. 

“You are a sweet!” he said fervently. 

“Am I much prettier than Mabel Dredge?” 

“Rather! What made you mention her?” 

“Oh, nothing. But mother was saying only this morn- 
ing that six months ago, when I was at school, she 

245 


Quinneys’ 

thought that Mabel Dredge and you might make a match 
of it.” 

“What rubbish !” 

He spoke irritably, too irritably a finer ear might have 
decided. 

“I expect you flirted with her a teeny-weeny bit ?” 

“As if any man with eyes in his head would look at 
Miss Dredge when you were about.” 

“But I wasn’t about then.” 

It was so evident that she was merely teasing him in 
the most innocent, girlish way, that he smiled and 
pressed her closer to him, whispering: 

“Don’t let’s jaw about Miss Dredge. I say, isn’t this 
cosy ?” 

“Isn’t it? Fancy if father could see us now. Jim, 
dear, I simply adore the excitement of this — our meet- 
ing here in the sanctuary. By the way, are you as mad 
as daddy about things?” 

“Things?” 

“Things as opposed to persons. Could you fall down 
and worship figures ?” 

“I could worship your figure.” 

“You know what I mean, I’m simply wondering what 
effect this particular business has had upon your char- 
acter. Don’t frown! We must admit that his business 
hasn’t improved poor father. And as for Mr. Tam- 
lin ” 

Jim said slowly: 

“What do you mean exactly by business affecting 
character ?” 

She paused to consider. Jim kissed her. Perhaps it 
was significant that she did not return his kiss, being 
246 


Things and Persons 

absorbed in her quest for the right word. She con- 
tinued slowly: 

“I hoped you would guess what I meant. Of course, 
poor father is honest. I have always been so proud 
of that. It would break my heart if he were like that 
horrid Mr. Tamlin, but he does care too much for what 
mother calls sticks and stones. They have come be- 
tween him and her; and they have come between him 
and me. I have never really known how much he loved 
me. And now this is going to be a test, because if he 
does love me really and truly he will put my happiness 
before his ambition, won’t he?” 

He kissed her again, and once more she let him do it, 
passively, gazing, so to speak, into his mind rather than 
his heart. 

Jim spoke curtly. 

“Make up your mind to this, Posy. There will be a 
big row. It’s inevitable.” 

Posy laughed. 

“How like a man! Big rows are never inevitable. 
And daddy is an awful old fuss-pot, but his bark is 
much worse than his bite. When he barks at me I laugh 
inside. Now, Jim, are you necessary to father?” 

“Necessary? Perhaps I am more necessary than he 
thinks, because I know too much to be treated badly. 
He would hardly dare to sack me.” 

“Not dare !” 

“I mean that I have a sort of ‘pull’ with him. And 
I’m a hard worker, and a first-class cabinet-maker. When 
the time comes for him to take a partner he couldn’t 
find a better man than I am.” 

Posy laughed. 


247 


Quinneys’ 

“Jim, I declare you have caught father’s habit of 
swanking.” 

“Swank, or no swank, I think I can make terms with 
your father, and the time has come to do it.” 

“I’d sooner things went on as they are for the pres- 
ent.” 

“Why?” 

“Well, we haven’t seen very much of each other as 
yet. We hardly know each other.” 

“I have reasons, dearest, for wishing to tackle your 
father as soon as possible.” 

“What reasons ?” 

She spoke coaxingly, laying her cheek close to his. 

“I must keep them to myself for the present. You 
trust me?” 

“Oh, yes, but I’m horribly curious! Are you cross?” 

“No, darling, I’m impatient. I want you to be wholly 
mine.” 

He laid his lips upon hers, and felt a slight pressure 
in return. When he pressed her to him, she thrilled. He 
kissed her ear, as he whispered : 

“Do you ever think of what it will be like when you 
are mine?” 

“Ye-es.” 

“Sit on my lap, you darling !” 

He half-pushed her off the arm of the chair. She 
stood up, hesitating, the colour ebbing and flowing in 
her cheeks. 

“I have never done that.” 

He held out both hands. 

“Isn’t it time to begin ? Is your dear little heart beat- 
ing?” 

“Yes, it is. Almost loud enough for father to hear. 

248 


Things and Persons 

But I feel — I feel ” Her voice died away in an 

attenuated whisper. 

“What do you feel? ,, 

“As if — as if we were playing hide-and-seek in the 
dark. I’m rather frightened. I suppose it’s stupid. 
I ” 

James stood up, facing her. Passion quivered in his 
voice as he exclaimed: 

“I’m going to kiss the fear of me out of you — now !” 

“No, you ain’t!” said Quinney. 

Ill 

The lovers sprang apart as Quinney emerged from 
behind the screen. He addressed the trembling Posy 
first. 

“Thought it likely you might make a fool of yourself, 
and I’ve not been disappointed. Come on, mother !” 

Susan appeared, looking very confused and miserable. 

“Look at her,” continued Quinney. “She’s blushin’ to 
the roots of her hair for you.” 

At this Posy pulled herself together, and remarked 
defiantly : 

“I’m not the least little bit ashamed of myself!” 

“Sorry to hear that, my girl; it fair furs my tongue 
to find you here. Now then, like to take it sittin’ or 
standin’ ?” 

“Take what?” 

“The dose I’m goin’ to deal out to a deceitful, disobe- 
dient, ungrateful daughter. Sharper than a serpent’s 
tooth, you are !” 

So far, he had ignored James, who was standing back, 
not far from the door. 


249 


Quinneys’ 


“I’ll take it standing,” replied Posy, “beside Jim.” 

Then, to Quinney’s rage, she tripped across the room, 
and flung her arms round the young man’s neck. Susan, 
ever mindful, like a true Biddlecombe, of the proprieties, 
murmured gaspingly: 

“Posy ! Please remember what you’ve not got on !” 

“This beats the band,” said Quinney. “I call this rank 
mutiny.” 

“It’s — it’s Nature,” faltered Susan. 

“You hold your tongue, mother! A nice couple, I do 
declare! Can you cook, Miss Independence?” 

Posy removed her arms from James’s neck, but she 
remained standing beside him. 

“Cook? You know I can’t cook. Why?” 

“Thought not. Anything of a hand with your needle ?” 

“No.” 

Quinney turned to Susan, who had sunk into a chair. 
The youth had faded out of her comely face. Every 
time that Quinney spoke she winced. A couple of tears 
were trickling down her cheeks. 

“Why didn’t you teach this young lady to use a broom, 
mother? Can she wash anything more useful than her 
own hands?” 

Susan shook her head helplessly. The situation was 
far beyond her. She faltered out : 

“Your orders, Joe. The child, you said, was to be 
brought up like a little princess.” 

He stared at her, dimly perceiving that his Susan 
could not be described truthfully as standing shoulder to 
shoulder with him. 

“They tell me,” he observed derisively, “that our royal 
Princesses have to learn such things as cookin’ and 
washin’, because revolutions do happen sometimes.” 

250 


Things and Persons 

Susan shrugged her shoulders. 

For the first time Quinney turned directly to James. 
The young man confronted his employer with a certain 
dignity not wasted upon Posy. He seemed to be quite 
ready to vindicate himself, when the opportunity came. 

“Intentions honourable ?” demanded the infuriated 
father. 

“They are, sir” 

“Arranged the weddin’-day yet?” 

“Not yet.” 

“Waitin', maybe, for father's blessing and a snug set- 
tlement?” 

James only smiled deprecatingly, but Posy exclaimed : 

“And why not? Isn’t it your duty to provide for me? 
It’s your fault, not mine, that I can’t cook, or wash, or 
sew.” 

“What a sauce!” said Quinney, lifting his congested 
eyes to heaven. “Mother, you go and stand between 

J ft 

em. 

Susan obeyed, muttering to herself and shaking her 
head. She placed a trembling hand upon Posy’s sleeve. 
Posy saw the tears and kissed her. Quinney continued 
more fluently, speaking with deliberation, for he had re- 
hearsed carefully this part of the scene. 

“Now, Miss Impudence, ain’t I been a good father 
to you? No quibblin’! Ain’t I been a tip-top parent 
to you ?” 

“I don’t quite know.” 

“What you say?” 

“I said I didn’t quite know.” 

“Well, I’m fairly jiggered ! Ain’t I given you every- 
thing a girl wants?” 

Posy remained silent. Can we describe Quinney’s 

251 


Quinneys’ 

astonishment and dismay, when Susan said curtly and 
clearly : 

“Indeed you haven’t”? 

Posy added, hesitatingly : 

“I have wanted things you didn’t give me.” 

“Of all the shameless hussies! Now, you answer 
straight. It’d take a month o’ Sundays to tell you what 
I have given you, but you tell me what I’ve not given.” 

Susan answered with a promptitude indicating previ- 
ous consideration of the question. 

“Be fair, Joe! You’ve not given the child your con- 
fidence or your sympathy. You don’t know what books 
she reads; you don’t know anything about her except 
what’s on the surface.” 

“Hark to this !” 

“You heard her say just now, when we was behind the 
screen, that she didn’t know whether you loved her. 
That’s something a girl ought to know, isn’t it?” 

“Go it! Love her? Love my daughter? You know 
that I love her.” 

“As she said, this is going to be a test of that.” 

“See here, Susan! Are you on my side or on hers?” 

“I’m trying to stand between you, Joe — trying hard 
to keep the peace, and — and to be just.” 

“Just? You dare to hint that I don’t love my child?” 

Very slowly, Susan answered him. What it cost the 
faithful soul to speak the truth, as she conceived it to be, 
no mere words can set forth. To her his question em- 
bodied the hopes and fears of all her married life, what 
she had suppressed so valiantly, so successfully, that he 
had never been vouchsafed a glimpse of her tormented 
sensibilities. To her this was the supreme moment when 
she must speak plainly, or for ever hold her peace. 

252 


Things and Persons 

“You love old furniture, Joe, old china, tapestries, and 
lacquer cabinets. You love them too well, dear. They 
have crept between you and Posy, between you — and 
me. 

The dreariness of her voice smote her husband. Had 
they been alone, he would have melted; but James was 
present — James, whom he despised, James, whom he 
knew to be unworthy. Unable to deal adequately with 
Susan’s pathetic indictment, he turned savagely on the 
young man. 

“And you — don’t you love old furniture, old china?” 
He made a passionate gesture, including within a sweep 
of his arm all the treasures about him. He continued: 
“Answer me ! Don’t you love things worth their weight 
in gold?” 

“They interest me, of course. I don’t love them.” 

“Never entered your overcrowded mind, did it, that 
when closing-time came for me these things would be- 
long to my only child — hey?” 

“It may have entered my mind, sir, but I didn’t fall 
in love with Posy because she was your daughter.” 

“Ho! Tell me, how do you propose to support this 
young lady after I’ve given you the sack?” 

“For that matter, Mr. Tamlin wants me. You pay me 
four pounds a week. I’m worth ten to any big dealer.” 

“ ’Ark to Mister Pride-before-the-Fall !” 

Rage now possessed him. He had promised himself 
that he would keep his temper, and deal drastically but 
calmly with a clever knave and a pretty noodle. But 
Susan’s atttitude had blown to the wind such excellent 
resolutions. Perhaps the dominant idea in his mind was 
to get Susan alone, to vindicate himself in her eyes. He 
believed honestly that this abominable affair had dis- 

253 


Quinneys’ 

tracted her poor wits. Obviously, the first step towards 
an understanding with Susan was the settlement of this 
preposterous James Miggott. He nerved himself for a 
knock-out blow. In James’s eyes, set a thought too close 
together, he fancied that he .read derision and defiance. 
He heard James’s quiet voice: 

“I am quite able to support a wife.” 

“Are you ? Does that mean, my lad, that you’re ready 
to marry her against my wish, without my consent?” 

“I counted on your consent, sir.” 

“You answer my question. You’re in love with Posy 
for herself — hey? You’d take her as she stands?” 

James answered firmly but respectfully : 

“Yes.” 

Poor Quinney! He had expected hesitation, a craven 
retreat from a false position, glib expostulation — any 
reply except this stark “Yes.” The blow stunned him. 
He heard Posy’s joyful voice: 

“Oh, Jim, you are a darling! I was never quite — 
quite sure till this blessed minute !” 

The little man boiled over. He was almost ripe for 
personal violence. Fortunately, the sense that a man 
must not fight with his fists in the presence of ladies 
made him thrust his hands into his pockets. The other 
convention concerning the use of strong language was 
honoured in the breach! 

“Damn you!” he spluttered. “If you want her, take 
her — now.” 


254 


CHAPTER XX 


BLACKMAIL 

I 

T HE bolt fell from the blue with shattering effect 
upon Posy and James. Susan, however, with that 
instinct which makes a woman grab at her petticoats 
when she is tumbling over a precipice, exclaimed shrilly : 
“Joe! He can’t take her without her stockings!” 
“That’s his affair,” said Quinney. 

His shrewd eye had marked a collapse on the part of 
James. He felt reasonably assured that the young man 
was bluffing; he knew that this “downy cove” wanted a 
wife with more than stockings, no matter how pretty 
her bare feet might be. Fortified by this conclusion, he, 
so to speak, fixed bayonets and charged. Unfortunately, 
he did not take Susan’s character into account, which a 
husband so acute should have done. He was well aware 
that his wife, with all her shining qualities, was obstinate 
and emotional. More, he had never regarded her as a 
mother, although that significant name crossed his lips a 
hundred times each day. Susan was his wife. 

When he charged, head down, seeing “red,” intent 
only upon “downing” the clever knave and the foolish 
virgin, Susan interposed, metaphorically, her soft body. 

“Joe, you ain’t serious? You ain’t turning our child 
out of our house at midnight?” 

We must admit that Quinney was not serious, but for 

255 


Quinneys’ 

the moment he was in no condition to think soberly. He 
replied fiercely : 

‘Tm turning out a — adder !” 

Susan faced him. He had lost his head ; she lost hers. 

“If you do this ” she gasped. 

“Go onl” 

“If you do this unnatural, .cruel, wicked ” 

“That’s right. Hit a man when he’s down !” 

“Down!” she retorted, as fiercely as he; “it’s up you 
are, Joe Quinney, tens o’ thousands o’ feet above all 
common sense and common decency. It is things you 
care for — things — things — things ! And our Posy — my 
Posy, bless her ! — is right to prefer persons to the graven 
images, the false gods, which you’ve set up and wor- 
shipped — yes, worshipped ! There’s only one person in 
all the world you care for, and that’s yourself — your- 
self!” 

She flung herself into a chair in a paroxysm of grief 
and distress, covering her face with the hands which had 
worked so faithfully for a husband changed beyond 
recognition. Posy flew to her. 

“Darling mother !” 

Quinney pushed the girl aside. 

“All your fault, you baggage ! Susan ! Susan !” 

Susan sobbed inarticulately. Quinney shook her, 
speaking loudly, but not unkindly, confounded in his 
turn by an indictment which he hardly understood. 

“Stop it, old dear, stop it ! I care about you, Susie — 
I do, indeed ! Worked for you, I have, made a perfect 
lady of yer ! Couldn’t get along without you, no how ! 
And you know it! Darby and Joan — what? Oh, bung 
it! Gawd bless me soul! you’ll melt away like, if you 
ain’t careful. Sue, s’elp me, you come first.” 

256 


Blackmail 

She lifted her head with disconcerting suddenness. 

“Do I? Sure?” 

He seized her hand, and pressed it. 

“Why, of course. Nice old cup of tea, you are, to 
doubt that!” 

“You’d miss me if I went?” 

The sharp interrogation ought to have given him 
pause. 

Perhaps he had always underrated Susan’s subtlety. 
The most foolish mothers can be subtle as the serpent 
when the happiness of their children is at stake. 

“Miss you? Haven’t I said time and again that I 
hoped as I’d be taken first?” 

She sat up alert, strangely composed after this tem- 
pest of emotion. 

“Oh yes, you’ve said so ” 

He was far too excited to perceive that she was lead- 
ing him into a trap cunningly contrived. 

“Meant it, too! Man o’ my word, I am!” 

Susan stood up. 

“Man of your word,” she repeated ironically. “Tell 
me you was joking when you threatened to turn young 
Posy into the street?” 

His mouth opened, his eyes protruded, as if he were 
a victim of that rare malady known as Graves’ disease. 
Had his Susan plotted and planned to trip him up? Was 
she a superlative actress? He moistened his parched 
lips with his tongue, measuring his will against hers, 
sorry for her, but sorrier still for himself. Then he 
said more calmly : 

“Young Posy needn’t leave us unless she wants to. 
I’ll keep on James. I’ll sweeten his salary again to 

257 


Quinneys’ 

please you, but our child ain’t for the likes of him. He’s 
no class.” 

Posy interrupted, with a toss of her head. 

‘‘James is good enough class for a child of yours.” 

Quinney curbed an angry retort. His temper was at 
last under control. He said quietly: 

“It comes to this, Posy. You’ve got to choose be- 
tween James Miggott and us. Now, not another word. 
You scoot off to bed. We’ll talk of this again to-mor- 
row.” 

“I shall choose Jim to-morrow.” 

Then Susan fired the decisive shot. Nobody will ever 
know whether she meant it. She had been tried too 
high. Doubtless the spirit of bluff was hovering in the 
sanctuary, playing pranks now with this victim, and now 
with that. 

“If you drive Posy out of this house, Joe, I shall go 
with her. If she never returns to it, I shall never re- 
turn to it.” 

Quinney wiped his forehead as he ejaculated: 

“The pore soul’s gone potty !” 

Susan continued: 

“I was ever so happy when we went to live in the 
Dream Cottage; I have been very unhappy in this big 
house filled with things which you love more than me.” 

“Unhappy — here? Lordy! You’ll complain of the 
Better Land when you get there!” 

James spoke. So far he had kept his powder dry and 
his head cool. 

“May I suggest ” 

“What?” 

“A compromise, sir. You have always impressed me 
with the wisdom of doing nothing rashly.” 

258 


Blackmail 

“Pity you couldn’t profit by such advice, Mr. Marry- 
in-Haste.” 

“I’ve been courting Posy for more than three months.” 

“You’ve the rest of your life to regret it.” 

James hesitated, trying to determine the right policy 
to pursue. Then he said firmly : 

“There are one or two matters to talk over, sir, before 
we part company.” 

“Meaning, my lad?” 

“Matters we had better discuss quietly, and — alone.” 

“Ho! Hear that, Susan? He’s not quite in such a 
hurry to take the young lady without her stockin’s. Very 
good ! You pop off to bed, my girl. Susan, you go with 
her. I’ll see you later.” 

Posy glanced at James, who nodded. 

“Good-night, Jim!” 

“Good-night, my darling!” 

“Tchah!” muttered Quinney. For the third time in 
his life the remembrance of the Channel crossing vividly 
presented itself. He felt deadly sick! 

II 

As mother and daughter retired, Quinney exclaimed, 
more to himself than to James: 

“When I think of what I’ve done for them two thank- 
less females !” 

“What have you done?” asked James. 

“Slaved for ’em for twenty years ! Sweated blood, I 
have ! Thanks to me, they’ve lived in cotton-wool, able 
to take it easy all the time. Enough o’ that ! What you 
got to say to me — alone? Hey?” 

“Can’t you guess ? Didn’t you overhear just now what 

259 


Quinneys’ 

I said to Posy? I told her that I thought I could deal 
with you, and that the time had come to do it. ,, 

“Deal away, my lad. Pull the cards out o’ yer sleeve. 
Lay ’em on the table.” 

“My cards, sir, are chairs.” 

“Chairs? You gone potty, too?” 

“Chairs. The chairs which Mr. Tamlin bought for 
fifty pounds; the chairs which I ‘restored’ ; the chairs 
which were done up with old needlework covers taken 
from other chairs; the chairs which you put up at 
Christopher’s and bought in after spirited bidding — faked 
bidding — for nine hundred pounds ; the chairs which you 
sold to Mr. Hunsaker this morning for eleven hundred ; 
the chairs which you ordered me to pack at once. Nice 
little tale to tell Mr. Hunsaker, when he calls to-morrow ! 
Nice little bit of ‘copy’ for the newspapers.” 

We know that this young fellow rehearsed his speeches. 
He had rehearsed this. It flowed smoothly from his lips. 

“Blackmail !” gasped Quinney. 

“I prefer to call it a weapon, sir, which you are forc- 
ing me, sorely against my will, to use.” 

“This puts the lid on.” 

“Yes, it does.” 

“I understand. It’s my daughter against your silence, 
hey? Hold hard! Does she know of this?” 

“No. Don’t you remember? She asked for informa- 
tion, which I withheld out of respect for you and her. 
Posy believes you to be scrupulously honest.” 

“I’m damned!” 

“I fear that you will be, if this story becomes public.” 

“My Posy against your silence. My Posy against my 
reputation. My Posy against my wife!” 

He was profoundly moved. James perceived this, and 
260 


Blackmail 


proceeded to follow up his advantage. His tactics, ad- 
mittedly, were intelligently conceived and carried out. 
His error — a fundamental one— lay in his ignorance of 
Quinney’s character. Like Susan, who had been car- 
ried away by her maternal emotions ; like Posy, who was 
still in her salad days, he had taken for granted that 
Quinney did prefer things to persons. 

“May I put my case this way, sir? As your pros- 
pective son-in-law, working hard in and for your in- 
terest, do I not present serious claims upon your atten- 
tion ?” 

Quinney stared at him. This was, indeed, a “plant,” 
skilfully prepared by a .rascal and fortune-hunter. He 
said roughly: 

“Cut that prospective son-in-law cackle ! As yourself, 
my lad, you do present very serious claims indeed upon 
my attention.” 

“Have it as you please, Mr. Quinney.” 

“That’s exactly how I mean to have it.” 

“What have you against me, sir ?” 

Quinney had been pacing the room restlessly. He 
stopped suddenly, opposite James, within two feet of 
his pale face. 

“You ain’t honest ; you ain’t straight ; you ain’t fit to 
marry an honest girl !” 

James raised his eyebrows. 

“Isn’t this a case of the pot calling the kettle black?” 

“Yes, it is. We’re both pots — dirty pots. How dirty 
I someway never saw till to-night. But my Posy is 
porcelain — clean, dainty porcelain. You can’t touch her 
without defilin’ her. Now — scoot!” 

“Without settling anything?” 

“You shall be settled to-morrow. Don’t worry.” 

261 


Quinneys’ 

The young man smiled. 

“You are wise, sir, to take a night to sleep over it.” 

“Done talkin’?” 

“For to-night, yes.” 

“Good! Because with every extra word you’re giv- 
ing yourself dead away. Easier to marry money than to 
make it, hey? Kennel up, you puppy!” 

The puppy snarled at this, but withdrew. 

Ill 

Alone, Quinney opened the cupboard beneath the china 
cabinet, taking from it a cut-glass decanter filled with 
old brown sherry, and two glasses, which he placed 
upon his desk. Then he summoned Susan. She drifted 
in rather helplessly, somewhat of a wreck after the storm. 
Quinney ensconced her in a chair, filled the two glasses 
with wine, and pushed one across the desk to Susan. 
She shook her head. 

“Drink it, you old spoof-sticks! Lordy, Sue, I didn’t 
know you had it in yer ! What a spirit ! What a little 
tigress !” 

He tossed off his glass, smacking his lips. 

“I meant it, Joe.” 

“Tch! tch! In two sticks you’ll have my pore leg 
pulled out of shape.” 

“I meant it, every word of it.” 

“What? You’d leave the best and kindest hubby in 
the world?” 

“I’d leave a crool, heartless father.” 

For answer, Quinney seized his empty glass and 
slammed it down upon the desk, smashing it riotously. 
Susan said in the same weak, obstinate tone: “Do that 
262 


Blackmail 


to her dear heart, you would.” He snatched at the full 
glass, and hurled that to the floor. Susan merely ob- 
served : “Another two shillings gone !” 

“Two shillings? Ten! Old Bristol! Lovely stuff!” 

“There you go again.” 

“Ho! You really think I care about money?” 

“Yes, I do.” 

“Well, I don’t. You say I care about things. So I 
do. But things have been a means to an end with me. 
Never mind that now. If you don’t know yer luck in 
havin’ Joe Quinney for a husband, he’s too busy a man 
to learn ye. I want to talk about something else. This 
James Miggott’s a bad lad. He’s threatening me.” 

The word challenged Susan’s attention. 

“Threatening you, Joe? What about?” 

Quinney’s high colour deepened. Susan had cornered 
him. His voice became less masterful. 

“Never you mind what about ! He ain’t goin’ to down 
me that way.” 

Susan glanced sharply at her husband. He tried to 
meet her honest eyes, but failed. The impulse surged 
within him to confess, to ask forgiveness, to promise to 
run straight for the future. The horns of the dilemma 
pierced his vitals. How could he expose James without 
revealing himself stark naked to the wife whose good 
opinion was dearer to him than all the treasures in the 
sanctuary? She beheld him squirming, and hastened to 
draw the wrong conclusion. James, of course — gallant 
youth — had threatened to take Posy without her stock- 
ings. She said tartly : 

“James is fighting for our Posy.” 

“No, he ain’t. He’s fighting, and hittin’ below the 
belt, too — for things. These things.” 


263 


Quinneys’ 

“I don’t believe it” 

“Right! You can believe this, I shall fight to a finish. 
No quarter — see?” 

“Very well. Good-night!” 

She rose, whey-faced, but resolute. 

“What d’ye mean by ‘good-night’ ?” 

“I’m going to sleep with Posy.” 

“You ain’t?” 

“Yes, I am!” 

She went out slowly, not closing the door. Quinney 
listened to her familiar steps as she mounted the oak 
stairs. She ascended higher and higher till she reached 
Posy’s room. Quinney heard the door shut, and then — 
significant sound — the click of a turning key. 

He appeared confounded. 


264 


CHAPTER XXI 


MABEL DREDGE 

I 

O UINNEY telephoned early the next morning to Tom 
Tamlin, asking him to come to Soho Square before 
ten. Posy did not descend to breakfast, and during that 
meal Susan preserved an obstinate silence. Quinney 
gobbled up his bacon, drank three cups of tea, and 
hurried to the sanctuary, where a pile of letters left un- 
answered the day before awaited him. Mabel Dredge, 
notebook in hand, greeted him perfunctorily. Quinney, 
lacerated by his own anxieties, noted a dreary tone in 
the girl’s voice. Many excellent persons never recognize 
trouble in others till they are suffering from trouble of 
their own. Of such was our hero. He had passed a 
wretched night, and, as he shaved, was constrained to 
perceive its ravages upon his face. Upon Mabel’s face, 
also, he seemed to catch a glimpse of faint lines and 
shadows, as if the spider Insomnia had woven a web 
across it. 

“Anything wrong?” he inquired. 

“Nothing,” replied Mabel tartly. 

He sat down at his desk, glancing at the morning’s 
letters, arranged by Mabel in a neat little pile. The top- 
most letter contained Hunsaker’s cheque for eleven hun- 
dred pounds, and a few cordial lines reminding his dear 
sir that he hoped to call at eleven, and that he might 

265 


Quinneys’ 

bring a friend with him, an expert of Chippendale fur- 
niture. Quinney frowned, resenting the introduction of 
an expert. But he reflected comfortably that the chairs 
were already cased. He opened the other letters, and 
then began to deal faithfully with each correspondent in 
turn. He dictated these letters after his own fashion. 
It was Mabel’s task to adjust grammatical errors and to 
eliminate slang. He had grown fond of Mabel because 
she was competent and tactful. 

“I think that will do, my dear.” 

Mabel rose quietly, shutting her notebook. She used 
a small room, where she kept her machine and a copying- 
press and other paraphernalia appertaining to secretarial 
duties. Unconsciously, she sighed. 

“Lookin’ peaky, you are,” said her employer. 

Mabel retorted indifferently : 

“Weather affects me. Seems even to have affected 
you, sir.” 

“Ho! Observant young miss! But you’re wrong. 
Weather don’t affect me; and it oughtn’t to affect a 
healthy young woman like you. Sleep badly?” 

“Ye— es.” 

“Same here.” 

The need of sympathy gripped him. He was so sorry 
for himself that he felt sorry for this white-faced typist, 
whom hitherto he had regarded as a machine. 

“Beastly, ain’t it?” She nodded, and he continued, 
speaking rather to himself than to her : “To toss about, 
tinglin’ all over, with one’s thoughts in a ferment ! Per- 
fectly disgustin’!” 

Mabel smiled faintly. 

“I’ve a lot on my mind just now,” he went on, “a 
266 


Mabel Dredge 

bigger load than I care to carry — immense responsi- 
bilities, see?” 

She opened her eyes, wondering what had evoked this 
amazing confidence, little guessing that the habit of years 
was behind it. He had always talked to Susan about 
his affairs, poured them into ears now deaf in the hour 
of sorest need. 

“Sit down,” he commanded. “There’s no hurry. I’m 
expecting Mr. Tamlin.” 

“I beg your pardon ; I forgot to mention it. I have a 
message from Mr. Miggott. His respects, and he wants 
to see you if you can spare a few minutes.” 

“Ho! Well, I can’t see him yet. He must wait my 
convenience. Sit you down!” 

Mabel obeyed, blushing slightly, because Quinney’s eyes 
were so piercing. She was quite unaware that she had 
betrayed herself in the pronunciation of a name. At no 
other time, probably, would Quinney have leapt to the 
conclusion that James was behind her trouble as cer- 
tainly as he was behind his own. He hated James. It 
hurt him to hear his name softly murmured. 

“Any of your people ill, my dear?” 

“No.” 

“Not in debt, are you?” 

“Certainly not.” 

“Not sufferin’ from neuralgia, or toothache, or any- 
thing of that sort ?” 

“I am in excellent health, sir.” 

“Then, my girl, you’re in love.” 

Her confusion answered him. She was angry, indig- 
nant, scornful ; but she could not prevent the red blood 
rushing into her cheeks. She retorted sharply: 

“That’s none of your business, sir !” 


267 


Quinneys’ 

Quinney chuckled. A ray of light flashed across his 
dark horizon. 

“Don’t be too sure o’ that, my dear. Perhaps it is 
my business; anyway, I’m going to make it my business, 
because I take a fatherly interest in you.” 

“I can manage my own affairs, Mr. Quinney.” 

“No, you can’t. Look ye here. I’m a wonderful 
guesser — always was. You like James Miggott. Noth- 
ing to be ashamed of in that. I’ll be bound he likes 
you !” 

Mabel fidgeted. Quinney’s voice was kind. It rang 
true. The desire to confide in this odd little man, so 
masterful, so persuasive when he chose, grew as swiftly 
as Jack the Giant Killer’s beanstalk. 

“Doesn’t he like you?” he asked insistently. 

“He used to like me,” she answered mournfully. 

“Ah ! Now, Mabel, there are just as good fish in the 
sea as ever came out of it.” 

“And what time have I to catch fish ?” 

“S’pose you was my daughter, I shouldn’t like you to 
marry James. This is on the strict Q.T., just between 
me and you, James was a faker of old furniture till he 
came to me.” 

“He’s no better, I dare say, and no worse, than other 
men in his trade!” 

“Tch! tch! He’s lucky to have a nice girl to stick 
up for him. Now, my dear” — his voice became very soft 
and confidential — “you say that James used to like you. 
Why has he cooled off, hey?” 

She answered miserably: 

“I don’t know.” 

“Cheer up! Maybe I can help you. Lordy! Don’t 
268 


Mabel Dredge 

cry! Answer me this — straight. Do you still want 
him?” 

“Ye— es.” 

It was a doleful, long-drawn-out monosyllable, elo- 
quent of much left unsaid. Quinney nodded sympa- 
thetically, although his small eyes were sparkling. 

“At one time, I take it, you thought he was yours?” 

She was too overcome to utter a word. 

“Do you believe that he likes somebody else?” He 
paused, waiting for an answer. She twisted her fingers, 
refused to meet his eyes, moved restlessly. He went on, 
playing upon her emotions : 

“Do you know who that somebody is? Come, be 
square with me, my dear. Is it a young lady who shall 
remain nameless — a young lady lately returned from 
school; a young lady whom James Miggott will never 
marry — never ?” 

His suppressed excitement communicated itself to her. 
She was clever enough to understand exactly what he 
wished to convey. She glanced up and nodded. Quinney 
drew in his breath sharply; his manner changed. 

“And you still want him?” 

“Yes.” 

“Queer creatures you women are, to be sure!” 

“We can’t pick and choose like men.” 

“If you want him, you shall have him.” 

She shook her head dubiously. 

“You don’t knojw James, sir.” 

“Ho! Don’t I? Better than you know him, better 
than he knows himself. I’ll help you, my girl, but you 
must help me.” 

“How?” 

He got up and stood beside her. She watched him 

269 


Quinneys’ 

with a certain fascination, curiously sensible of his power 
over her and others. The native confidence that he had 
in himself percolated slowly through her. 

“Tell me truly what has passed between you and this 
young man.” 

She was expecting any question except this. The au- 
dacity of it overwhelmed her, as he had foreseen that 
it would. She broke down, sobbing bitterly, hiding her 
face from the keen eyes looking down into her very soul. 
Quinney laid his hand upon her head tenderly. For the 
moment this strangely-assorted pair, linked together by 
an interest common to each, yet antagonistic to each, 
stood together upon a plane high above that on which 
they moved habitually. 

“I ain’t no saint,” said Quinney solemnly. “And I tell 
you this, Mabel Dredge, I’ve been through hell during 
the past twelve hours ; and I’m not out of it yet. Stand 
up, you poor dear ! Look me in the face, for then you’ll 
know that you can trust me. Give me your hand — so! 
It’s a nice little hand. Ought there to be a wedding-ring 
on it?” 

“Yes,” she whispered. 


II 

Susan came in shortly after Mabel had gone. Her 
face was very troubled, but obstinacy sat enthroned upon 
a head carried at a higher angle than usual. Quinney 
said facetiously: 

“Come to throw yourself at my feet and ask forgive- 
ness ?” 

“Certainly not.” 

“Meant all you said last night ?” 

270 


Mabel Dredge 

“Every word of it.” 

“What is Posy doing?” 

“Crying her eyes out, I dare say.” 

“Sounds sloppy.” 

“Mr. Tamlin is here. Hateful man! I suppose he’ll 
side with you !” 

“That remains to be seen. I doubt it. Ask Tom to 
step up.” 

Susan went out with dignity. 

Tamlin had been to a banquet the night before, and 
bore the signs of intemperance in eating and drinking 
upon his large mottled face. He greeted Quinney sulkily, 
unable to purge his mind of the conviction that Soho 
Square ought to come to Bond Street. He asked thickly : 

“Ever suffer from indigestion?” 

“Never.” 

“I do,” said Tamlin gloomily. He added with finality : 
“Port, even the best, atop o’ bubbly wine is a mistake 
after fifty. What you want me for, young Joe?” 

“Glad I look young, Tom. I don’t feel it this morn- 
ing.” 

Tamlin stared at him. 

“Blest if you ain’t made a night of it, too.” 

“Here’s something to cheer us up.” 

He pushed across the desk Hunsaker’s cheque for 
eleven hundred pounds. Tamlin’s heavy features re- 
laxed into a smile. Quinney scribbled some figures 
on a memorandum pad, and invited his colleague to 
verify them. The sum represented the exact amount due 
to Tamlin as his share of the plunder. 

“Quite O.K., Joe.” 

“Like your bit o’ ready now?” 

“Never refuse cash, my lad.” 


271 


Quinneys’ 

Quinney wrote out a cheque, and a receipt. Tamlin 
accepted the cheque, placing it in a bulky pocket-book. 
He glared askance at the receipt, which set forth that 
the sum just paid was a commission upon the sale of 
eight chairs to Cyrus P. Hunsaker, of Hunsaker. 

“Why this receipt, Joe? Ain’t a cheque a receipt?” 

Quinney answered curtly: 

“A cheque don’t show what money is paid for. My 
way o’ doin’ business.” 

“No complaints.” 

He chuckled fatly, raising his thick eyebrows when 
Quinney observed lightly: 

“What we done the day before yesterday was a leetle 
bit dangerous, old man. Sailin’ too near the reefs — 
urn?” 

Tamlin replied pompously: 

“Skilled navigators, my lad, do sail near the reefs. I 
wouldn’t assume such risks with another man.” 

“But you did !” 

“What do you mean, Joe?” 

“James Miggott is in the know.” 

“Of course, but he’s had his little bit.” 

“Yes; but he wants more!” 

“The swine !” He stared at Quinney, beholding upon 
the whimsical face of his pupil writing which he could 
not read. “What’s up ?” he spluttered. 

“I am,” said Quinney, rising; “and stripped for the 
fight of my life.” 

Tamlin stirred uneasily. 

“A fight, Joe? Who with?” 

Quinney answered fiercely: 

“That dirty dog, James Miggott. He wants more than 
what we gave him. See ? He wants my Posy.” 

272 


Mabel Dredge 

Tamlin exhibited marked relief. 

“Your Posy? Don’t blame him for wanting her.” 

“You hold hard ! Young Posy wants him.” 

“Gawd bless my soul! She’s not the judge o’ quality 
he is.” 

“And Susan backs ’em up. That fairly tears it.” 

Tamlin looked puzzled, unable to account for the 
younger man’s excitement. He considered that Joe, un- 
like himself, was incapable of managing his womenfolk. 

“Between ’em, Tom, they’ve got a strangle hold on 
us.” 

“Us? What have I to do with your fam’ly matters?” 

“I sent for you to tell you. Now, first and last, they’ll 
never have my consent, never! But, by thunder! I re- 
fuse my consent, not because the dog’s my servant, but 
because he isn’t straight. He’s no better than you and 
me. 

Tamlin glared at his former pupil, who stood over him, 
waving a denunciatory hand. 

“You speak for yourself, young man.” 

“I ain’t young. We’re both of us old enough to know 
better and do better, but we’ve had to make our way. 
Maybe I’ve been honester than you, maybe I haven’t. I 
ain’t whining, least of all to you. We’re in a deep hole 
of our own making. And we must get out of it. I told 
this James Miggott last night that we was pots, just com- 
mon pots, sailin’ down the stream with other pots. But 
my little Posy’s porcelain, the finest paste, the gem o’ my 
collection. Susan accuses me of caring for things, these 
things. So I do ; so do you ; that’s why we’ve struggled 
to the front. And this son of a gun loves things, and 
what they stand for. He’s after my things, but he’s 

273 


Quinneys’ 

clever enough to have bluffed two innercent females into 
believin’ that he wants my Posy without ’em.” 

Tamlin blinked and nodded, stupefied by the terrific 
feeling displayed by Quinney. His headache had come 
back, that humiliating sense of “unfitness” which clouded 
his judgment, leaving him dazed and irritable. Nor, as 
yet, had he grasped the situation, nor measured the depth 
of the hole to which Quinney alluded. The little man 
went on : 

“I’ve called his bluff, if it is bluff. I’ve told him that 
he can take Posy, march her out of this house as she 
is.” 

“What did he say to that?” 

“I should have downed him, but, by Gum, the old lady 
butted in. Swore solemn she’d leave my house, if I 
turned Posy out. She means it, too!” 

“A good riddance,” snarled Tamlin. 

Quinney exploded, shaking his clenched fist in front of 
the huge, red face. 

“What? I’d have you to know, Tom Tamlin, that my 
Susan and me have stuck together through thick and 
thin. I think the world of her, but she’s without guile, 
bless her, and as obstinate as Balaam’s ass !” 

“S’pose you tell me where I come in?” 

“Here and now, by the back-door! This dirty dog 
threatens to down me with the true story of them chairs. 
And he’ll do it, too. Now, let this soak in together with 
all that port and champagne you swallered last night. If 
he downs me, he downs you ! Got it ?” 

Assuredly Tamlin had “got it.” He began to shake 
with impotent rage, growling out: 

“Threatens to split? I’d like to tell that young man 
exactly what I think of him.” 

274 


Mabel Dredge 

“You can,” said Quinney derisively; “but it will do 
you more good than him, I reckon. We’ll send for him 
in a jiffy. Ever notice my typist and stenographer, Miss 
Dredge?” 

“Yes, many a time. Nice-lookin’ gal.” 

“This maggot of a Miggott has been eatin’ into her 
young affections, see?” 

“Has he? The young man has taste, Joe. Reg’lar 
lady-killer!” 

Quinney lowered his voice: 

“It’s a weapon, but I don’t rely on it. I can’t use it, in 
fairness to Mabel, till we stand in the last ditch.” 

“Why not? Got to think of ourselves, ain’t we?” 

Tamlin pulled out an immense silk bandana, and 
mopped a heated brow. 

“It’s two-edged, Tom. You ain’t yourself this morn- 
ing, or you’d see, with your knowledge of the fair sex, 
that Posy might be keener on gettin’ this scamp, if she 
learned that another woman was after him. We’ll try to 
handle Master Miggott first.” 

He crossed to the speaking-tube, and summoned James 
to the sanctuary. Then he sat down, very erect and 
austere, at his desk. 


Ill 

Presently James entered, carrying his head at the angle 
affected by Susan, looking very bland and self-confi- 
dent. 

“Good-morning, Mr. Tamlin ! Good-morning, Mr. 
Quinney !” 

Quinney acknowledged this salutation with a derisive 
grin. 


275 


Quinneys’ 

“Mornin’, Mr. Chesty! Bin usin’ a Sandow’s exer- 
ciser?” 

“No, sir; Indian clubs. Am I to state my case before 
Mr. Tamlin?” 

“Yes. Go ahead and state it. Don’t waste any time, 
or his, or your own.” 

James addressed himself suavely to Tamlin, selecting 
his words carefully, speaking slowly, with the utmost 
respect. 

“Last night, Mr. Quinney threatened to turn his daugh- 
ter into the street, because she’s engaged to be married 
to me.” 

“My hand was forced, my lad. Go on.” 

“I can support a wife, and Miss Quinney is ready to 
marry me by special licence this afternoon.” 

“Quite sure o’ that?” 

“Ab — solutely. Unhappily, I’m not yet in a financial 
position to support two ladies.” 

“Two ladies?” echoed Quinney, thinking of Mabel 
Dredge. 

“I allude, sir, to Mrs. Quinney. She insists upon leav- 
ing you, if her child is turned out. That rather compli- 
cates matters.” 

“It does,” said Quinney grimly. 

“Under these circumstances, gentlemen, I feel justified 
in bringing pressure to bear. Mr. Hunsaker, who bought 
certain chairs yesterday, will call again this morning. 
He is naturally interested in the history of the chairs ; and 
he might make trouble if he knew all the facts about them 
as known to you, Mr. Tamlin, to Mr. Quinney, and to 
me. I may add that my responsibility in the affair is 
negligible.” 

“Slick talker,” muttered Quinney. He could see that 
276 


Mabel Dredge 

Tamlin was much impressed by James’s manner. The 
big fellow grunted uneasily : 

“What do you propose?” 

“A compromise, Mr. Tamlin.” 

Quinney lost something of his dignity, when he jerked 
out: 

“He’s compromised my Posy, and many another pore 
girl, I’ll be bound!” 

“Pardon me, sir. That sort of talk before a witness 
is libellous.” 

The last rag of Quinney ’s dignity fluttered away. 

“I’ll down you, my lad; yes, I will!” 

“Self-preservation being the first law, sir, I must — 
sorely against the grain — down you first. Excuse plain 
speaking.” 

Quinney jumped up. 

“I like plain speaking! I was weaned on it, short- 
coated on it ! By Gum ! my father damned me before I 
was born !” 

“Easy all,” murmured Tamlin nervously. He ad- 
dressed James with a civility which the young man ac- 
knowledged with a faint smile. “Do I understand that 
you threaten to down your master because he refuses 
to sanction an engagement between you and his daugh- 
ter?” 

James shrugged his shoulders. 

“It’s a case of 'pull, devil — pull, baker!’ I mean to 
pull for all I’m worth.” 

Quinney interrupted furiously: 

“And what are you worth, Lord Rothschild?” 

Tamlin held up a large hand, not too clean, upon which 
sparkled a diamond ring. 

“You spoke of compromise, James?” 

277 


Quinneys’ 

“Yes, sir. I suggest that my engagement to Miss 
Quinney should be sanctioned and recognized. I will 
stay on here, and demonstrate to Mr. Quinney my claims 
to be taken on later as a junior partner. Unless Miss 
Quinney of her own will cancels the engagement, the 
marriage will take place ” 

“Never !” shouted Quinney. 

James smiled deprecatingly. 

“Shall I retire, gentlemen? You have time to talk 
things over. Mr. Hunsaker will not be here for another 
hour yet.” 

Tamlin nodded portentously : 

“Yes, yes; leave us.” 

IV 


Tamlin was the first to break an ominous silence: 

“The long and short of it is, Joe, that this young feller 
can ruin us, rob us of our hard-earned reputations. We 
must square him.” 

“Money? He asks for money and Posy!” 

Tamlin stroked his chin pensively. It occurred to him 
that so sharp a practitioner as James Miggott would 
never come to want. As a suitor for one of his three 
daughters, he would not consider him too rashly as 
ineligible. 

“Posy might do worse,” he muttered. 

“Ho! That’s it. Sidin’ with them? Thought you 
might!” 

“Face the music, Joe! We’re hanged, high as Haman, 
unless the ladies come to the rescue. It’s a bit thick his 
threatenin’ you. How does Posy take that — um?” 

“How can I tell her what he’s threatening to do? 
James knows that, the dog!” 

278 


Mabel Dredge 

“You can hint at unpleasantness. Posy ought to know 
that her young man is buckin’ about ruining you.” 

“Maybe you’d like to talk to Susan and Posy?” 

“I should. I understand women; you don’t.” 

“You shall talk to ’em.” 

He hurried to the door, and through it on to the 
landing. 

“Susan — Su — san !” 

Susan’s voice was heard descending from above: 

“Is that you calling, Joe?” 

“Who did yer think it was? The Archbishop o’ 
Canterbury or the First Lord of the Admiralty? Come 
you down quick, and bring Posy with you.” 

He stumped back into the sanctuary to confront Tam- 
lin’s scornful face. 

“That the way you talk to an angry woman? Had 
any words with Mrs. Quinney this morning?” 

“I’ve been talking to her and at her, off and on, ever 
since breakfast.” 

“Pore, dear soul !” ejaculated Tamlin. 


* 


279 


CHAPTER XXII 


A TEST 

I 

P OSY may have been crying, but the colour and 
sparkle remained in her eyes; and she had arrayed 
herself in a smart and becoming costume, which Quin- 
ney recognized as “Sunday best Let women decide 
what motive animated this preening. If she were to 
be turned out of Soho Square, Posy, not unreasonably, 
may have decided to take her prettiest frock with her. 
On the other hand, with equal wisdom, she may have 
thought that the sight of a charming young woman in 
all her bravery is likely to melt the heart of the sternest 
man. Because she appeared on this momentous morning 
fresh and alluring, let us not accuse her of heartlessness. 
If destined by Fate to lose a father, she would gain a 
husband. Poor Susan, limp and bedraggled, was miser- 
ably sensible that victory for her would inflict conse- 
quences more crushing than defeat. 

“Goin’ to church?” Quinney inquired of his daughter. 
Posy replied respectfully: 

“Only if driven there by you.” 

Tamlin, rumbling and grumbling after his dietical in- 
discretions, greeted the young lady with a phrase often 
on his lips: 

“Seasonable weather for the time of year?” 

280 


A Test 


Susan glanced at him scornfully, and said audibly : 
“Fiddle !” 

Quinney apologized for this breach of politeness after 
his own fashion : 

“Be’ind the door, she was, Tom, when they collected 
threepence a head for manners. Now, sit you down I” 

Tamlin waved a half-consumed cigar, addressing 
Susan : 

“Any objections to my smoking, ma’am?” 

“Not she,” replied her husband, “neither in this world 
nor the next. You go on and talk to her. You under- 
stand women. Open fire on ’em!” 

“May I say a few words, ma’am?” 

“Provided they are few, you may, Mr. Tamlin.” 

Driven to the wall, she made no effort to conceal her 
dislike of this big fat man, whom she had ever re- 
garded as an evil influence in her Joe’s life. Quinney 
exclaimed : 

“ ’Ark to Mrs. Don’t-care-a-damn !” 

Tamlin raised a protesting finger. 

“Tut, tut, Joe. You leave this to me.” 

He continued majestically, picking his words: 

“I don’t think you can be aware, ma’am, that James 
Miggott is threatening your husband, and” — he turned 
to Posy — “your dear father.” 

Susan snapped out: 

“Joe told me as much last night. I know well what 
James is threatening. He’s not the only man of his word 
in this house. He’s threatening to take the girl he loves 
as she is. He’s not thinking of anything else. He’s 
made it plain that he’s only to hold up his finger, and 
Posy’ll go to him gladly.” 

“Just what I told you, Tom,” remarked Quinney. 

281 


Quinneys’ 

“You’re under a misapprehension, ma’am. Miggott is 
threatening us — me and Joe.” 

At this Posy became more alert, listening attentively 
to Tamlin, but keeping her clear eyes upon her sire. 
Susan betrayed astonishment. 

“Threatening you, Mr. Tamlin? Why should he 
threaten you, and why should you care tuppence whether 
he threatens you or not ?” 

Very deprecatingly, Tamlin spread out his large hands, 
palm uppermost, as if he wished the ladies to infer that 
he came empty-handed into a fight not of his seeking. 

“I repeat, ma’am, he’s threatening us. He’s talking 
of trying to ruin us.” 

“Talkin’ through his hat,” murmured Quinney. 

Susan tossed her head impatiently. 

“You’ll have to speak more plainly, Mr. Tamlin, if 
you wish me to understand what you’re driving at.” 

Tamlin, cornered by Susan’s direct methods in strik- 
ing opposition to his own, fetched a compass, and be- 
gan again more warily: 

“Is it possible that you contemplate leaving the most 
faithful husband in the world, ma’am?” 

Quinney chuckled, rubbing his hands. 

“That’s better. Now, Susie, you listen to Tom, if you 
won’t listen to me.” 

“I’ve listened patiently to you, Joe, for just twenty 
years. It’s about time I did a bit of talking, and that 
you did the listening.” 

“Ho! Been bottling things up, have you?” She 
nodded. “Then you uncork yourself, old dear! But, 
before you begin, I’ll try to impress this on your female 
mind. This dirty dog of a James Miggott is threatening 
me and Tom. He believes that he can injure our reputa- 
282 


A Test 


tions in the trade. See? Tom, here, thinks that he’ll 
do it, if I refuse to surrender. Well, I don’t. That’s 
where he and me differ. But, just as sure as the Lord 
made little apples and small, mean souls, it’s the solid 
truth that this young man is tryin’ to blackmail me! 
Now you have the text, dearie. Get you up and preach 
a sermon on it. Posy, in her Sunday clothes, will listen, 
and so will I. But bear in mind that you took me for 
better or worse.” 

Tamlin added unctuously : 

“And please remember, ma’am, that you have to con- 
sider me.” 

Susan eyed Tamlin with chill indifference. Her voice 
was almost vitriolic, as she remarked : 

“If I’m driven from house and home, Mr. Tamlin, 
’tain’t likely I shall waste much time considering you !” 

“Who’s driving you, ma’am, from house and home?” 

“My husband is, more shame to him !” 

She collected her energies for a supreme effort, turn- 
ing in her chair to look at the tyrant. 

“Blaze away !” said the tyrant. 

“Joe” — her voice trembled in spite of a gallant effort 
to control it — “you are forcing me to do the cruellest 
thing in all the world — to choose between my own child 
and you. I ain’t got your brains, but I’ve something 
much better — a heart. Posy wants me, and you don’t. 
Let me finish. It’s bitter aloes to me, but I swallow the 
gall of it for my dear child’s sake. You used to love 
me !” 

“Used?” 

“Between you and me, that’s over and done with.” 

She spoke very mournfully, brushing a tear from her 
cheek. 


283 


Quinneys’ 

“No, it ain’t, Susie. Seemin’ly, what I’ve done to 
show my love for you ain’t enough. S’pose you tell me 
what more I might do?” 

She answered swiftly : 

“Give your consent to Posy marrying, as I did, marry- 
ing the man of her choice. Have you anything against 
his moral character?” 

“He’s a wrong ’un ; take that from me !” 

“Not without proof. What’s he done that’s wrong? 
He don’t muddle his wits with food and drink. He 
don’t use filthy tobacco. He attends Divine Service.” 

“Ho! Poor in this world’s goods, but a moral mil- 
lionaire, hey?” 

“It’s hateful to hear you sneer at him !” 

“You ask me to give my daughter to a dog that’s try- 
ing to bite the hand that fed him?” 

“Posy might do worse,” said Tamlin hoarsely. 

“Now you’ve torn it!” said Quinney viciously. “I’m 
alone against the lot of you. Good! I’ll down the lot 
of you, I’ll ” 

Posy interrupted : 

“Father!” 

“Well, my girl?” 

She spoke incisively, with something of his manner: 

“You won’t answer one important question. What is 
James threatening to do to you and Mr. Tamlin?” 

Poor Quinney! He had only to speak with entire 
frankness to win his Susan back. But at what a cost! 
Could he roll in the dust of a humiliating confession? 
Unconsciously he clenched his fists, setting his firm jaw 
at an even more aggressive angle. In desperation he 
clutched at a straw. If he must be dragged down from 
284 


A Test 


his high estate as the honestest dealer in the world, let 
that iconoclastic deed be done by another hand. 

“Look ye here, my girl, suppose you ask James that 
question.” 

“I want to ask him,” she replied calmly. 

“Fine!” muttered Tamlin. “Yes, my dear, you ask 
him why he dares to threaten your dear father.” 

“And you,” said Posy. 

“That's right. And me. More than one good tip 
he's had from me.” 

“Tips? Why should you tip him?” 

“You can ask him. There’s no time to waste.” 

“No time to waste?” 

The situation had become tenser. Quinney perceived 
with a certain pride that Posy was demonstrating the 
quality of brains inherited from him. 

“Go to him,” said Quinney. “He’s in his room. We’ll 
wait here.” 

She obeyed. 

II 

As soon as James saw Posy coming alone to him, he 
leapt triumphantly to the conclusion that her father had 
hauled down his flag. With a joyous exclamation he 
hastened to embrace her, but she turned a cool cheek to 
ardent lips. 

“Father sent me to you, Jim.” 

“I knew he’d climb down!” 

“But he hasn't. Jim, dear, what do you mean by 
threatening father and — and Mr. Tamlin?” 

The eager smile faded out of his face. He remained 
silent, marshalling his wits. 

“Have you received tips from Mr. Tamlin?” 

285 


Quinneys’ 

“He’s paid me for work done.” 

“What sort of work?” 

“Restoring old bits of stuff. What has that got to do 
with us?” 

She followed her thoughts, not his questions. 

“And why is there all this hurry? Mr. Tamlin said 
just now that there was no time to waste.” 

“He’s right; there isn’t!” 

“But why?” 

Her voice was gently insistent. She laid her hand 
softly upon the sleeve of his coat, as if entreating him 
to trust her, as she trusted him. 

“It’s like this, Posy. I told you last night that I 
could deal with your father, that the right moment had 
come to deal with him. Now, give me a free hand !” 

“Mr. Tamlin spoke, not very clearly, about your being 
able to ruin father and him. Father denies that!” 

“Does he?” 

Posy grew nervous, the colour ebbed from her cheeks ; 
into her eyes flitted a shadow of fear. Her sharp wits 
were at work adding and subtracting, fitting together 
this jig-saw puzzle. 

At this moment, her memory answered oddly to the 
strain imposed upon it. In this room, before the coup 
de foudre, her father had spoken roughly to her, order- 
ing her out of it with a peremptoriness apparently quite 
unjustifiable, because she was on an errand connected 
with his business. This tiny fact had rankled. James 
had asked her for a bottle of cleaning fluid. 

Suddenly, out of the pigeon-holes of her mind, tumbled 
the covers of the chairs which James wanted to clean. 
The very pattern of the exquisite needlework presented 
itself. 


286 


A Test 


“Oh !” she exclaimed. 

“What’s the matter, dearest? This excitement has 
been too much for you. Do let me handle your father. 
Believe me, I can do it in our joint interest.” 

She gazed at him queerly, a tiny, vertical line between 
her dark eyebrows. 

“Has father done something dishonest?” 

The colour rushed back into her cheeks as she spoke, 
but her eyes remained upon his. When he made no 
reply, she continued: 

“Are you threatening to expose some fraud, a fraud 
connected with — chairs ?” 

“God! You are clever!” said James, unable to hide 
his admiration, or to believe that she had swooped upon 
the truth. 

She sighed. 

“Then it is true.” 

There was no interrogation in those four words. 

“Well, yes; it is true.'” He hurried on, fearing that 
she might interrupt him. “I wanted to spare you knowl- 
edge of that. Fortune has placed in my hands a weapon. 
I am using it for both our sakes. Between our two 
selves, my dearest, I can admit to you that I should not 
really ruin your father. What an idea!” 

“Then you are bluffing?” 

“I am. I want you so desperately.” 

He attempted to kiss her, but she repulsed him gently. 

“If mother knew ” 

“She need not know. Your father will climb down at 
the last moment. He knows, and Tamlin knows, that I 
can ruin both of them.” 

“It’s as bad as that?” 

“Yes. He must surrender!” 


287 


Quinneys’ 

“But if he shouldn’t? Jim, dear, you said last night 
that you would take me as I am; and I loved you for 
saying that. Now, you want to bargain for me.” 

“To bargain for you, darling; not for myself.” 

She nodded, accepting his explanation, able to put 
herself in his place. Beholding the situation from his 
point of view, panoramically, she tried, in turn, to see 
the same situation from the point of view of her father. 
She exclaimed softly: 

“Gracious !” 

The expression upon her face puzzled James. Men, 
even the cleverest, can follow women’s bodies easier than 
their thoughts. 

“Try to be sensible about this,” he murmured. 

“It’s so exciting. Don’t you see that this is a test of 
father, a wonderful test!” 

“Of what?” 

“Of his love for me, of his love for mother.” 

“Eh?” 

“Don’t be dense, Jim! Mother has accused father of 
not caring much for us; but, if he risks ruin for our 
sake, he does care.” 

“Pooh! He’s bluffing, too!” 

“I am not certain of that. Anyway” — her face cleared ; 
she beamed at him delightfully — “I should like you to 
make good, Jim, without horrid threats, without bluff- 
ing. Take me as I am, if you want me. You can earn 
a good living anywhere. I’m not afraid of a little pov- 
erty with you.” 

“You don’t know what poverty is, Posy. I do. I’m 
afraid of poverty for the woman I care about.” 

“Do you mean that you refuse to take me as I am?” 

Bathos and pathos are twins. James passed, with an 
288 


A Test 

unconsidered bound, from climax to anticlimax. He said 
irritably : 

‘‘Hang it all! I shall have to take your mother, too. 
Posy, we haven’t time to argue this. Hunsaker will be 
here directly. Luck has thrust into my hands a tre- 
mendous lever; and I mean to use it.” 

“Is that your last word?” 

“Yes, it is. I’m fighting for you, fighting to a finish. 
And ever since the world began, women have had to 

look on at such a fight ” 

“And take the winner?” 

She laughed derisively. 

“I shall be the winner!” 

“Come up and tell father so.” 

“Right!” 

“Mother and I will look on.” 


Ill 

They went upstairs in silence, to find Tamlin reading 
the paper, and Susan engaged in dusting the china. 

“Where’s father?” said Posy. 

“Busy with Mabel Dredge. I’ll fetch him.” 

Posy sat down. From her face it was impossible to 
divine what was passing through her brain. She folded 
her hands upon her lap and waited. 

Quinney appeared, followed by Susan. He glared at 
James, and then fixed his gaze upon Posy. 

“Well, my girl?” 

She said demurely: 

“It’s to be a fight to a finish for me.” 

“Damn!” said Tamlin. 


289 


Quinneys’ 

Susan wandered to the window, staring aimlessly into 
the square. She heard Tamlin saying hoarsely: 

“Joe, you take my advice; let the girl have the man 
she wants. S’elp me, if one o’ my daughters took a 
shine to him, she should have him! You’re fairly 
downed, old man, and you know it. This Hunsaker will 
be here before we can turn round.” 

“He is here,” said Susan, turning from the window. 


290 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE RESULT 

I 

S USAN was somewhat astonished at the effect of her 
announcement upon those present. She added, after 
a pause: 

“A middle-aged gentleman is with him.” 

“Ho !” ejaculated Quinney. Evidently Hunsaker had 
brought the expert to Soho Square. He said sharply to 
James : 

“Go downstairs, and bring these gentlemen up here !” 
James glanced at Posy, and then at Quinney. 

“You mean that, sir?” 

“Of course I mean it! Scoot!” 

Tamlin’s mottled countenance deepened in tint. He 
rose from his chair and approached Quinney. James 
moved slowly towards the door, but he heard Tamlin’s 
hoarse whisper: 

“Better give in, Joe.” 

Quinney answered loudly: 

“Never!” 

“We can’t face the music, if he squeals.” 

“I can.” He addressed the company generally, in a 
fierce voice: “You mark what I say — all of you. I’d 
sooner be ruined, lock, stock, and barrel, than give my 
daughter to that man!” 


291 


Quinneys’ 

He pointed at James, whose self-possession was be- 
ginning to fail him. “What are you waiting for?” he 
demanded. “Do as I tell you. Ask Mr. Hunsaker and 
his friend, with my compliments, to come here!” 

James vanished silently, as Tamlin muttered: 

“I’ll retire.” 

Instantly Quinney interposed his small, sturdy figure 
between the big dealer and the door. 

“No, you don’t, Tom Tamlin! Shoulder to shoulder 
with me, old man, till the last shot is fired !” 

“I wish I knew what it is all about,” said Susan to 
Posy. In a louder voice she addressed her husband : 

“Maybe Posy and I had better leave you?” 

“Please yourselves,” said Quinney. His eyes were 
sparkling, and his short, red hair bristled with excite- 
ment and the lust of battle. 

“As they are fighting for me,” said Posy, “I’ll stay.” 

Susan observed in utter bewilderment: 

“I’ve looked on all my life, and I can do it a little 
longer.” 

She turned to Posy, with the intention of asking for 
some sort of explanation; but Posy had gone up to her 
father. 

“Daddy!” 

Quinney replied roughly: 

“Too late to say you’re sorry now, my girl!” 

“But I’m not sorry. I’m ever so glad. Whether you 
are right or wrong about Jim, it is everything — yes, 
everything — to me to know that you really meant what 
you said just now.” 

She went back to her mother as Hunsaker’s genial 
voice was heard coming up the stairs : 

“Yes, sir, a sanctuary; and not a thing in it for sale!” 

292 


The Result 


ii 

The two visitors entered, followed by James. Tamlin 
gasped when he beheld Hunsaker’s companion, a celeb- 
rity known to all the great dealers in two hemispheres. 
He was short, rather stout, and very quietly dressed, 
with a fine head set upon rounded shoulders. The face 
was heavy- featured and saturnine, the face of a man 
who had lived a strenuous life, a fighter and a conqueror. 
Hunsaker pronounced his name with pride : 

“Mr. Quinney, this is Mr. Dupont Jordan.” 

“Glad to see you, Mr. Jordan,” said Quinney. He 
waved his hand. “My wife and daughter.” 

The famous collector bowed to the ladies, and nodded 
to Tamlin, *who murmured obsequiously: 

“Mr. Jordan has honoured me with his patronage.” 

Hunsaker’s voice rose jovially above the murmurs: 

“Mr. Jordan is interested in my chairs. He wants to 
see ’em. What he doesn’t know about Chippendale fur- 
niture you could put into a mustard-seed and hear it 
rattle.” 

“Dear me!” said Susan. “That’s a pity. The chairs 
are cased, I believe.” 

“Not all of them,” said James. “One chair is still 
unpacked.” 

He stared boldly at Quinney, asking for a sign. Quin- 
ney rubbed his hands. 

“Good,” said he. “Go and fetch the chair, James.” 

“Fetch it here, sir?” 

“At once, my lad.” 

Tamlin began to shake. Of all men in the world, 
Dupont Jordan was least to be desired at such a mo- 

293 


Quinneys’ 

ment. Tamlin grew painfully moist and hot. James 
left the room, slightly slamming the door, a slam that 
sounded to Tamlin like the crack of doom. Hunsaker, 
meanwhile, had engaged the ladies in talk. Jordan stood 
beside Quinney, silent, but looking with interest at the 
incised lacquer screen. Quinney said to him quietly: 

“Is it true, Mr. Jordan, that you bought the Pevensey 
chairs from Lark and Bundy?” 

“Quite true, Mr. Quinney. That is why I wish so 
particularly to see Mr. Hunsaker’s set, which I under- 
stand are like mine.” 

Quinney said in a loud tone : “Fm sorry.” 

The tone rather than the words challenged attention. 
Hunsaker stopped talking, staring at Quinney. 

“Sorry?” repeated Jordan. 

“Sorry, sir, that so busy a man should have come 
here. The chairs are like the Pevensey chairs, but they 
are not authentic specimens. I told Mr. Hunsaker that 
we dealers were done sometimes.” 

“Often,” murmured Tamlin mournfully. 

“Yesterday afternoon, Mr. Tamlin and I discovered 
that these chairs are not what they appear to be.” He 
moved to his desk. “Here is your cheque, Mr. Hunsaker. 
I return it.” 

“Suffering Moses !” exclaimed Hunsaker. 

“I am sorry,” said Quinney, “that Mr. Jordan should 
be disappointed, but his verdict, no doubt, will coincide 
with mine and Thomas Tamlin’s.” 

“Finest fakes I ever saw in all my life,” murmured 
Tamlin. 

Hunsaker stared at his cheque, and then held out his 
hand to Quinney. 

294 


The Result 

“By the Lord, sir, I’m proud to know you. You’re 
the straight goods.” 

“Give us time,” said Tamlin, “and we’ll find you a 
genuine set.” 

The big fellow was almost, but not quite, at his ease. 
He admitted to himself that his former pupil had risen 
to heights above his master. Nevertheless, the victory 
was not yet assured. He continued grandiloquently: 

“We dealers are prepared to pay for our mistakes, 
but we don’t want ’em made public.” 

Hunsaker exclaimed with enthusiasm: 

“You can bet your boots, Mr. Tamlin, that this mis- 
take won’t be made public by me.” 

“Nor by me,” said Jordan. His heavy face had bright- 
ened, his keen glance rested pleasantly upon Quinney. 
He had been told that this odd little man never sold 
fakes except as such, and here was confirmation strong 
of the astounding statement. Tamlin he knew to be a 
plausible rogue, who was honest only in his dealings with 
men like himself, recognized experts. Lark and Bundy 
he knew also as gentlemen of the same kidney. Quin- 
ney soared above his experience of dealers — an unique 
specimen. 

These thoughts were diverted by the entrance of James, 
carrying the chair. He set it down with a flourish. He 
believed that Quinney had such faith in his powers as a 
faker of Chippendale furniture that he dared to invite 
the inspection of an expert. In a sense it was a proud 
moment for him, when he heard Quinney say : 

“Now, Mr. Jordan, will you kindly pass judgment on 
this chair?” 

Jordan adjusted his pince-nez, and bent over it. Quin- 
ney glanced at James. 


295 


Quinney s’ 

“Stay you here, my lad.” 

James smiled triumphantly, interpreting these words 
to mean surrender. He collapsed like a pricked bladder, 
when he heard Quinney say to Jordan: 

“Wonderful bit of fake work, Mr. Jordan, isn't it?” 

“Half-and-half, I call it,” observed Tamlin, noting the 
effect on James. 

“Yes,” said Jordan slowly. “This leg is genuine, I 
should say, and that isn’t. Under a strong glass one 
would perceive the difference.” 

He looked up to behold James quite unable to control 
his emotions. The lever in which he had trusted was 
elevating Posy’s father to sublime heights. By a stroke 
of genius Quinney had challenged the attention of a mil- 
lionaire collector, who might entrust so honest a man 
with commissions involving tens of thousands of pounds. 
His bluff had been called in Posy’s presence, Posy who 
was staring at her father with wonder in her eyes. For 
one moment he was tempted to throw prudence to the 
winds, and proclaim the fraud. But — would he be be- 
lieved now? 

“Is this young man ill?” asked Jordan. 

“Oh no,” said Quinney. “He’s upset, that’s what he 
is, and no wonder! I’ll say this for him, he’s a clever 
lad; and he always had his doubts about them chairs, 
didn’t you, James?” 

“Yes,” replied the unhappy James, “but ” 

“That’ll do, my boy. Take away that chair. I feel 
ill when I look at it. Case it up. We’ll send the lot 
back to Ireland this afternoon.” 

James picked up the chair and retreated in disorder, 
outplayed at all points. 

“The needlework is beautiful,” said Jordan. 

296 


The Result 

“Nothing more to be said,” remarked Quinney 
genially. 

He chuckled, rubbing his hands together, glancing 
slyly at Posy and Susan. Jordan was tremendously im- 
pressed. Here was a little man, obviously without much 
education, who had achieved a distinctive position as a 
dealer in the world’s greatest mart. And he was plucky 
enough to face a heavy monetary loss and a still heavier 
blow to his amour propre as a connoisseur with — 
chucklings. Jordan loved a good loser. 

Hunsaker put into vivid words the thoughts passing 
through Jordan’s mind: 

“Nothing more to be said !” he repeated. “I’ve some- 
thing to say, and I want to get it off my chest quick. 
You’re a dead square man, Mr. Quinney, and, by thun- 
der, I’ll make it my business that you don’t lose by this. 
My friends are going to hear of you, sir. And some of 
’em will weigh in downstairs with cheques as big as 
this.” He waved the slip of paper excitedly. “I ain’t 
sure that I ought to take this. I bought the chairs after 
careful examination. I wanted to buy them, and you 
were not over keen about selling. I remember that.” 

“I couldn’t let you have those chairs, Mr. Hunsaker. 
Tear up that cheque !” 

“I’m hanged if I will! I want to take back to Hun- 
saker a souvenir of a great morning. Can’t you let me 
have something else for this?” 

Then Quinney added the last touch. 

“Ye$, by Gum ! I can. And I’ll leave it to Mr. Jor- 
dan. You can have anything in this room you fancy 
at a price to be set on it by him.” 

Hunsaker threw back his broad shoulders and laughed. 

297 


Quinneys’ 

There was a whiff of the New Mexico plains in his 
general air, a breezy freshness captivating to see. At 
that moment Quinney regretted nothing. He beheld an 
honest man, and was warmed to the core. 

“Anything ?” repeated Hunsaker. He glanced about 
him, and for one moment his eyes rested upon Posy. 

“Anything,” Quinney reaffirmed. 

“I’ll remember that, sir. Now, Mr. Jordan, do me 
the favour to select some object in this sanctuary for 
which you would pay eleven hundred pounds or more.” 

“You insist?” 

“I shall be under the greatest obligations to you and 
Mr. Quinney.” 

Jordan walked to the cabinet. At his request Quin- 
ney opened it, displaying the beautiful interior. 

“I would gladly give eleven hundred pounds for this,” 
he said quietly. 

“Will you accept that, Mr. Quinney?” 

Quinney chuckled, looking at Posy. 

“Um! There are memories connected with that cabi- 
net, Mr. Hunsaker, which make me willing to part with 
it. It’s yours.” 

“It’s mine.” 

Solemnly he handed the cheque back to Quinney, who 
as solemnly received it, laying it upon his desk. Jordan 
held out his hand. 

“Good-day, Mr. Quinney. I hope to become one of 
your customers, and to send you some of my friends.” 

Hunsaker turned to take leave of the ladies. 

“I’m fixing up that dinner and play, Miss Posy, so it 
won’t be good-bye. Au revoir?” 

“Au revoir ” said Posy. 

298 


The Result 


in 

Quinney accompanied them downstairs. When he 
returned to the sanctuary, Tamlin was the first to greet 
him. 

“Joe,” he said, “I’ve always wondered how a man 
without education could win your position in the trade. 
Now I know.” 

“Honesty pays, Tom, sometimes. Which reminds me 
of that cheque I gave you. Hand it over, old man !” 

Tamlin did so reluctantly. 

“Am I entitled to a com. on the sale of that lac cabi- 
net?” 

“As between man and man you are not, but when it 
comes to furnishin’ the great and growin’ town of Hun- 
saker with fancy bits, why you shan’t be left out in the 
cold.” 

“So long,” said Tamlin. He saluted the ladies politely, 
pausing at the door to address Susan: 

“You hang on to Joe, ma’am. He’ll make you Lady 
Quinney yet.” 

Tamlin had heard of the prediction made long ago by 
the Queen of the Gipsies. 

“Send up James Miggott,” said Quinney. 

He was left alone with Susan and Posy. The girl 
broke the silence: 

“Father!” 

“Wait! James is coming.” 

The hardness had gone from his voice. Susan, far 
too dazed to realize what had taken place, but knowing 
vaguely that her husband seemed to have triumphed 
greatly, exclaimed joyously: 


299 


Chimneys’ 

“Ah, Joe, you’re going to forgive them.” 

“Forgive — him? I ain’t settled with James yet.” 

“He was only bluffing,” faltered Posy. “He told me 
so.” 

“Did he?” said her father. 

James entered. He had recovered his self-possession, 
and something of his native impudence. Quinney, it was 
true, had outwitted him, but the great fact remained — 
Posy loved him. 

“Stand you there, my lad !” 

James remained near the door, thinking of Posy’s 
three thousand pounds, which, unhappily, could not be 
touched till she was twenty-one. Men have, however, 
waited longer for less. 

“So you was bluffing — hey?” 

“Posy knew that I wouldn’t injure you, sir.” 

“And you thought I was bluffing, but I wasn’t. I’d 
sooner go to gaol — yes, I would — than see you married 
to my daughter. And why? Because you’re after 
things.” 

“I want Posy.” 

“I see no margin of profit for Posy if you want her, 
and nothing else.” 

“Posy wants me.” 

“No, you’re wrong, my lad. Posy wants the man she 
thinks you to be, not the man you are.” 

He approached Posy, looking her over, appraising her 
points. 

“You ain’t a judge of quality yet,” he said to her. 
“This young feller is a fake. Don’t shake your pretty 
head! He’s not good enough for you, and that’s why 
I forbid the banns. Your pore mother thinks it’s a mat- 
ter of pounds, shillings, and pence with me. Well, I 
300 


The Result 


know the value of money, because I’ve made it. Money 
can buy nearly everything and everybody. Money can 
buy you, Posy.” 

“It can’t.” 

“It can buy you from him.” 

He turned sharply, staring contemptuously at James, 
appraising him also as the young man stood before him, 
erect and defiant. 

“James Miggott ” 

“Sir?” 

“You have stolen something which is mine. I’ll buy 
it back at my own price.” 

“You can’t buy Posy from me?” 

“Have you settled yet with Mabel Dredge?” 

“What do you mean, sir?” 

His voice remained impudently firm, but into his eyes 
crept a furtive expression. 

-“It seems, my lad, that Mabel Dredge wants you, and 
you wanted her before Posy came back from school. 
Took all she had to give, too.” 

“Oh !” exclaimed Posy. 

Quinney continued scathingly: “You were mean 
enough to break with her, when my girl appeared, but 
she didn’t break with you. As a moral millionaire, 
James Miggott, you’re — bust !” 

Susan saw James’s face, evidence damning to any 
woman of intuitions. She cried aloud dolorously: 

“He stole the roses from her pore cheeks! Oh, the 
everlasting wickedness of some men !” 

Quinney smiled derisively. 

“And, oh ! the everlasting foolishness of some women ! 
Mabel Dredge still wants him.” 


301 


Quinneys’ 

James, floundering in quicksands, attempted to lie his 
way out of them. 

“It isn’t true.” 

“Pah !” said Quinney. “You’re nicely decorated, 
and there’s a smooth buttery glaze to you, but your 
paste is rotten! Now, let’s get to business. Posy 
and her mother think that I value things more 
than persons. Here” — he snatched up Hunsaker’s 
cheque — “is a thing worth eleven hundred pounds. 
I offer you this, James Miggott, and with it Mabel 
Dredge, who prefers flashy stuff. You must choose 
and choose quick, between Mabel, plus this cheque, 
and Posy in her go-to-meetin’ clothes, plus her 
mother, who’s right, by Gum, not to trust her alone 
with you.” 

Personality can be irresistible. This little man, with 
all his disabilities, held these three persons spellbound 
under the magic of his voice and manner. Posy’s bosom 
was heaving with emotion ; Susan stared, open-eyed and 
open-mouthed, at the lover of Laburnum Row, her Joe, 
miraculously restored to her. James glared at his master, 
recognizing him as such, defiant still, but stricken dumb. 
Quinney chuckled. 

“The cheque won’t be on offer long, my lad. Better 
take it! Better take it! It’s — endorsed.” 

James hesitated, casting a furtive glance at Posy. She 
met his eyes bravely ; and he knew that she saw him un- 
mistakably as he was. Quinney flipped the cheque with 
his finger. 

“Better take it — quick !” 

James took it, and fled. 


302 


The Result 


IV 

Posy fell weeping into a chair. It is significant, per- 
haps, that Susan for the moment disregarded her daugh- 
ter. Joe seemed to fill her eyes and the room. She 
fluttered towards him, stretching out her hands, calling 
him by name. 

“You are — wonderful!” 

The old phrase fell inevitably from her lips. He was 
acclaimed as the senior partner, rehabilitated. She did 
not entreat forgiveness, because she divined proudly 
that he would not wish his wife to humble herself. 

Quinney kissed her joyously. 

But Posy’s bitter sobbing spoilt the sweetness of that 
kiss. Husband and wife remembered guiltily their child. 

“Come you here, Posy,” said Quinney. “Come to 
your old dad, my pretty !” 

She obeyed him, hiding her head upon his shoulder, 
feeling the pressure of his arms, and then hearing his 
voice : 

“I’ve paid more for you, Posy, than any thing I’ve got. 
And I shall hold tight on to you till Mr. Right comes 
along. You’ll know him when you see him, missy, be- 
cause of this nasty little experience with Mr. Wrong.” 

He stroked her hair, caressed her cheek, touching her 
lovingly with the tips of his fingers. Posy looked up. 

“You do love me, don’t you?” 

“By God,” he answered, “I do.” 

THE END 


303 
























































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